


Time Does Not Bring Relief, Part III

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Series: Time Does Not Bring Relief by Kadru [3]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Romance, Series: The Redemption Project 57, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-11-13
Updated: 1999-11-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 02:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The conclusion to Time Does Not Bring Relief, and the solution to who killed Didion Sachs.<br/>This story is a sequel to Time Does Not Bring Relief, Part II.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This story has been split into three sections for easier loading.

## Time Does Not Bring Relief, Part III

by Kadru

Author's webpage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

This story is a sequel to Loving You Less Than Life and Time Does Not Bring Relief, I and II 

Disclaimers: Blair, Jim, Simon, Rafe, Taggart, Henri and Rhonda are all characters belonging to Pet Fly Productions and UPN. I'm only using their characters for fun, entertainment and fantasy. I repeat: no profit! Ian Yoshito, Collin McPherson, Bass Sanders, Didion Sachs, Lee Whitmore, Miriam Frohmeir, Phillip Harrison, Beverly Cordova, Perth and Burlington are all my creations. They are borrowed from other fictions and I will chase after you if you hurt them. 

Notes: "Time" is a murder mystery. Ergo, someone dies. If you were a good person and read the other two Time installments, you know this already. Well, there's a lot more to follow. Also, this story is a regular minor character death fest. Some of it rather gory. Sorry. That's just the way it happened. 

MAJOR WARNING: -- don't make me install a Blink tag -- if this is your first glance at this series, back out now. This is the middle, almost end, of an on-line novel involving murder, mystery and conspiracy theories. It will ruin your fun -- and all my hard work (hint, hint!) -- if you start reading the series with this installment. Go to my site to read the earlier episodes. 

My deepest apologies for how long it's taking me with these pieces. Having survived a nasty breakup in the middle of writing this, it was really difficult to re-live and re-hash all these memories and emotions. I'm much better now, thanks to most of you guys (hugs). The story should start rolling along now. 

As always, I couldn't do this without betas. I have fantastic, wonderful, incredible betas -- Rie and Jack (the mighty Australian duo). I also have a third beta, Christie, who's on vacation, so I may be making some changes to it based on her feedback. Thanks, thanks and thanks again! Thanks also to my best friend, pixter, who hounds me in real life to get this series finished. 

If I had to dedicate this piece, it would have to be to the whole SXF group for holding back and not strangling me for being so slow with the resolution. And to Ann and Nicki for keeping all the admin stuff together. 

Time wise -- this takes place before Megan Connor joins the force. 

Summary: the conspiracy preying on Jim and Blair begins to unravel, with nasty repercussions. 

Warnings: extreme violence, extreme language, and some dirty parts thrown in. Major angst factor. Death scenes of minor characters. 

* * *

Time Does Not Bring Relief, Part III - section one 

Slowly Jim shut the door to the loft behind him and fell back against it with a sigh, closing his eyes, his hand still gripping the knob. Standing there for a moment to collect his thoughts, he surveyed his home. His empty home. An uncomfortable silence haunted him -- or rather \-- a cacophony of insignificant noises which hovered around him, annoying as flies -- the hum of the refrigerator, the whine of digital clocks, the whisper of cars driving by. All of them were not what he was searching for each night as he walked in. Every night he "felt" the absence of certain sounds, like holes in fabric -- the silence of what should have been Blair's heartbeat, and his voice, and his simple footsteps across the wooden floor. He tossed his keys into the basket, then hung up his coat. Now would begin the same ritual he put himself through every night \-- an examination of what few facts he had as to why he had forced Blair away from him in the first place. The threats now severely silent. Seeing Blair's face pale when he discovered the dog collar in his mailbox. The e-coli at the restaurant. The hauntingly bizarre red velvet circles coated in herbal oils. He rubbed his face in frustration. Even though everything had hinted toward someone in the police department, no one had seemed to fit the bill. Joel, Rafe, Henri -- they all liked and respected Blair a great deal, and he couldn't find anyone in the other departments -- Vice, Narcotics, not even Traffic -- who would want to harm his guide. 

As he shifted towards the refrigerator for a beer, the ringing of the phone jarred him from his thoughts. 

"Ellison." 

"Jim, it's Simon." 

"Yes sir?" 

"I need you ASAP." 

"What's going on?" 

"How well did you know a Didion Sachs or a Sebastian Sanders?" 

/Did?/ Jim swallowed. "I know them . . . Why? What's happened?" 

A sudden noise in the background distracted Simon. "Fine," he said. "I'll be with you in a moment." Then he turned the conversation back to his detective. "Jim, I need you and Sandburg at their home now. It's on --" 

"I know where it is, sir." 

"You've been here before?" 

"Yes sir. What's going on?" 

"I'll be with you in a moment," Simon spat angrily to someone else. Then to Jim, "I can't explain right now. Get over here. And bring Sandburg." Then the line went dead. 

* * *

Jim parked his truck beside Blair's car. He stared up at Collin and Blair's apartment and his jaw tensed. He had never been here since Blair moved in. Above him, on the second floor, he could see lights, and he detected a shadow stirring in the rooms. /We don't have time, Jim. Go get Blair./ Taking a deep breath, Jim opened the truck door and was instantly distracted by Blair's car. Heat. Jim felt heat radiating from his guide's car. He placed his hand on the hood, then looked one more time at the window upstairs. 

He needed to shake his head to clear his thoughts before trudging up the steps to the second story and knocking on the door. 

A few moments later, Blair opened the door. "Jim? What . . . what are you doing here?" 

"Simon just called. He said something's happened at Didion and Bass' house. He wanted me to pick you up, but we have to hurry." 

"Let me grab my coat." 

Jim paused at the doorway, gazing into Blair and Collin's apartment. Already, Blair had hung his aboriginal masks, and Jim recognized some of Blair's books on the shelves. /He's making this his home./ Jim was surprised by how much it hurt him to know that Blair was moving on with his life, without him. He frowned just as Blair stepped outside and closed the door behind him. 

"Okay. I'm ready. Let's go." 

/You aren't even going to ask what's going on?/ 

"I said I was ready." 

Jim fell into step behind his guide, and as he did, he let his open hand hover over Blair's back, close, but not enough to touch him. He dialed up his senses. /The outside of his jacket is still cold. He hasn't been home long at all./ The jacket still had the sheen of moisture from the night's misty rain. 

* * *

The drive to Didion's mansion was a silent one. Blair stared out the passenger window, watching the street lights pass by, and occasionally pulling his jacket tighter around his chest. Jim focused on the highway and on his guide's heart beat. As they drove towards the mansion, both men felt their stomachs grow cold at the sight of several police cars \-- with lights flashing -- and an ambulance. Neither spoke as they stepped out of the truck and came closer. The strobe of the police photographer slashed the driveway in white, and Jim peered over her shoulder at the stripes in the gravel made by some vehicle. The detective glanced around and spotted both Didion's Mercedes and Sebastian's BMW. 

A trail of blood led across the gravel, through the doorway and into the house. Carefully the two men walked around the blood, neither one saying a thing. Once inside the foyer, Simon spotted them. "Jim! What took you so long?" 

"You told me to pick up Sandburg, sir." 

"Put this on." Simon grabbed two kevlar vests from a pile beside the door. "You, too." He tossed the second to Sandburg. "Come with me." 

"Simon," Blair interrupted, "what's going on here?" 

"Sebastian Sanders is upstairs with a weapon. He placed the 911 call and now he won't let anyone near him. Keeps saying he won't put the gun down until Jim arrives." 

"Where's Didion, sir?" 

"Missing. But there's blood everywhere, so watch your step. And this man upstairs is obviously scared shitless and he won't let anyone near him until _you_ get here. Says _you're_ the only one who can protect him. Now. You feel like explaining to _me_ what the hell is going on here?" 

"I'll find out, sir." Jim opened his hearing and easily located Sebastian in the master bedroom, his heart beating frantically. 

* * *

Jim quickly stepped into the bedroom, his gun raised and in position to fire. Sebastian swung his gun around, aiming it square at Jim's chest. For a few quiet, tense seconds, everyone froze, staring. The two men held their guns at each other, inimitable marksmen, waiting. Myriad heartbeats drummed in Jim's head -- his own, Blair's, Sebastian's, Simon's, the two uniformed officers' beside him. The detective centered down the barrel of his own firearm and into Sebastian's eyes and instantly recognized the swirling of emotions there -- fear, pain, and the spiraling signs of relief. The young man's hands trembled just as his lungs heaved. "Jim? You're here? You're here. Oh, thank god, you're finally here." Tears spilled out of his eyes. By the time he gasped for breath, his hands could no longer hold the gun. His knees twisted and jerked as he fell to the floor, the gun hitting the carpet. Sebastian dropped his face into his hands, choking back the urge to sob. 

No one else moved. Cautiously, Jim stepped forward, his own gun still aimed directly at the fallen man, closer, closer, until he could kick the firearm from Sebastian's reach. Taking a deep breath of relief, Jim holstered his gun while Blair's agile body slid around his and curved to the floor to wrap Sebastian in a tight embrace. "Shhhh. It's okay. We're here now." 

Jim noticed the two uniforms coming inside to apprehend Sebastian and he stopped them with a hand to their chests. "Not so fast. Let Sandburg handle this." The uniformed officers looked to Simon for direction, and the captain only nodded his head. Jim turned back around to Sebastian and Blair. 

"He's dead --" Sebastian broke. 

Blair lifted his dark blue eyes to Jim while he stroked his friend's back. 

Sebastian pressed his face into Blair's neck, clutching at him fiercely. "He's dead. He's dead. He's dead." 

Jim turned to Simon and whispered, "Where's Didion?" 

"He's missing." 

Kneeling down, Jim tried to speak to Sebastian. "Bass? Bass?" 

"Jim, leave him alone." His arm wrapped tighter around Sebastian's back. Then he growled, "And I mean it." 

"Sandburg, I --" 

"You can do this later." 

Jim rolled his eyes. "Fine." As he turned to leave, Sebastian suddenly burst from Blair's arms and clutched at Jim's leg. 

"Jim! Please don't leave me!" 

The detective was obviously jarred and he almost yanked his leg free of Sebastian's grasp but thought better of it. Kneeling down again, he placed his hand on Sebastian's shoulder and said, "I'm not going anywhere. I'm just going downstairs." 

"Don't go!" 

"I'm just going downstairs." He looked into Sebastian's panicked, tear-filled eyes, and something seemed odd to him. "Bass, what's going on here?" 

"He's dead." 

"We don't know that yet." 

"They won't let him live." 

"They?" Jim glanced at Blair before looking back at Sebastian. "They who?" 

Suddenly Sebastian froze up in horror, covering his mouth with the shuddering back of his hand and scooting away from both Jim and Blair. He drew his knees into his chest and rolled into a ball, shaking. 

Blair decided to approach his friend. Laying a hand on his shoulder, he asked, "Who are you talking about?" 

Sebastian's eyes flashed wild when he raised his hand. "No!" He shook his head. "No no no no." 

Jim quickly stood up and pushed Simon towards the door. "I think he needs to be sedated, sir." 

"I'll get the EMT's." 

* * *

While the EMT's administered the sedative to a reluctant and terrified Sebastian, Jim slipped downstairs to investigate Didion's office. A thick trail of dark blood stained the almond slate floor from the doorway to his massive desk. At the entrance, Jim bumped into Dan, the department's forensics agent. 

"Oh, hey Jim." 

"What have we got?" he asked as he snapped his rubber gloves on his hands. 

"No _body_ , for one." 

"Any idea when it happened?" 

"Nothing. Even with the rain, the blood was too dry when we got here." 

"Is it even Didion's?" 

"We'll know in a few hours." 

"What else?" Jim stepped into the office, and he immediately froze, his mouth wide open. /The smell./ Mixed in with the sharp tang of cordite and the heavy, coppery scent of blood, Jim sensed something else, something that made his stomach droop. The rich mahogany smell of his guide. Blair. He looked back at the doorway and through the walls as if he could see through stone and wood into the master bedroom where his hearing told him Blair remained. Turning back to the office, and the leather chair torn by bullets, the smell of Blair was all too concrete. He had been here. Blair had been here. And recently. Then his thoughts drifted back to the warm car and the damp jacket. 

Dan's voice distracted him. "We pulled two bullets out of the chair. Ballistics will have them identified by tomorrow morning, and we'll run a search then. See if this gun's been used in any other crime." 

"Anything about the tire tracks out front?" 

"Nothing. The gravel prevented any decent prints." 

Jim shook his head and turned to leave. As he did, he opened his hearing to trace Blair again. His heartbeat was slowing down, becoming more calm, and so was Sebastian's. He stood there in the doorway for a moment, noticing again the smell of his guide in the room. Yet there was something else. Jim looked back into the office. There was some . . . sound. Mechanical. Crackling. He peered up at the ceiling and at a row of track lighting used to highlight a Byzantium mosaic of ancient courtiers in purple gowns. "Hey, Dan?" "Yeah?" 

"Pass me that chair over there." 

"This one?" He pointed. 

"Yeah. I want to check something here." Dan passed him a stiff chair and Jim climbed up on it. 

"What are you looking at?" 

The detective unscrewed one of the light bulbs. "This." He stood aside slightly, balancing awkwardly on the chair, and pointed to a small microphone. 

"How'd you know it was there?" 

"Just lucky. Noticed it when I was walking out. Call the photographer in here." With his pencil, he shifted the microphone around and realized that a small crack ran down the side. /I've never seen anything like this from Ops. This thing's insulated./ Dan entered with the photographer, and Jim climbed down from the chair. "Is Simon still outside?" 

"Yeah." 

"Good. We need to requisition some detection equipment. I'd guess this whole house is bugged." As Jim left to search for Simon, he thought, /Now why would Didion's house be bugged? And who would want to do that?/ He stopped just outside the doorway of the mansion. 

/Whoever bugged this house has a recording of Didion being killed./ 

* * *

Simon stepped into the cold night air, rubbing his hand across his lower jaw. He didn't even need to look at his watch to know how late it was. He could feel it each time the muscles in the small of his back cramped. Taking a deep breath, he stared up into the night sky, not even commenting on the thick cloud layer stained orange by the city lights. 

Without saying a word, Blair slipped past him. He moved closer to the two police cars on the edge of the property, their blue and red lights flashing into the nearby forest, coloring the trunks of the Douglas firs. Blair stood there, with his hands in his pockets, motionless except for his long hair shifting in the cool breeze, waiting. 

Then, as if they both felt something significant happening behind them, Simon and Blair turned at the same time towards the mansion. Two police officers walked out first, followed by a drugged and quiet Sebastian draped in a blue blanket. The cold air seemed to perk him up a little, and he glanced into the darkness. The number of cars, the empty ambulance, and the trail of blood seemed to surprise him as if he didn't expect this kind of commotion to be occurring outside his home. Then, the understanding of why all this was happening struck him hard and he swallowed back a gasp, like a stranded fish gulping on the shore. His tear-wet face reflected the red and blue. Blair closed his eyes in sympathy as he watched his friend stop and look up into the sky and not find any star to guide him. 

The object shooting past Blair didn't register at first. 

The black thing surged out of the formless dark, bolting between two police cars. 

Simon was the only one to speak. "What the --" 

Blair fell back against the police car, both hands braced against the metal doors, his heart pounding so hard that all he could feel was the dizzying rush of blood coursing through his horrified body like a storm. 

Just then, Jim stepped out through the doorway, his feet crunching on the gravel and his mouth opening. 

Sebastian felt something dashing towards him, and he dropped his vision from the starless night in time to see the massive black dog galloping from the blue-red forest. He heard the soft scratch of its clawed paws on the rough stones, not believing it. 

Suddenly the dog was in the air, its heavy front paws reaching out. When it made contact with Sebastian's chest, the drugged man staggered back from the ramming force. As both fell, the dog leaned in closer as if to kiss, its jaws opening, fangs reflecting back the red and blue lights before it viciously tore into Sebastian's face. The muscles and skin ripped bloodlessly, as if not even his body could believe it was being so maliciously raped. When both animal and man smacked against the ground, the beast began snapping Sebastian's head back and forth like a silly plaything. 

* * *

The burn of the mattress and the weight of the sheets startled him. Sebastian practically leapt to his knees in the bed. Instantly his hands grabbed his face, and when he felt no bandages, no scars, not even the wetness of blood, he rolled his head back and groaned. /The damn dreams. Just what I need./ His heart beat fiercely, pounding his chest and literally rocking his tired body back and forth on the mattress. He steadied himself with shaking hands and tried to swallow back his rushing breath. Rolling his head around on his neck, rubbing his nape with one hand, Sebastian tried to calm himself and forget the terrifying dream images in his mind. 

As he did, his eyes noticed the window to the left of his bed. 

In the twilight cast by the halogen street lamp, he saw the figure standing there. A man, in silhouette. He stepped closer, and as he did, Sebastian found it harder and harder to breathe, much less call out for Jim and Blair. The safehouse had a large grassy yard separating it from the other houses, affording the police a good vantage point, but this dark figure walked with complete confidence, unimpeded, towards Sebastian's window. Pulling himself together, Sebastian forced the sound out of his throat, even if it didn't sound human, even if he couldn't enunciate a single syllable of anyone's name, the shout would be enough. Jim would hear him. The shout would be enough. 

But when he saw the dark figure's eyes glowing red in the dark, his stomach cramped with fear. For a moment, Sebastian sat there on the bed, the sheets pooled around his waist, unable to move, mesmerized by the graceful steps of the dark man as he approached with glowing eyes. With each step closer, Sebastian noticed the ears along the stranger's head -- sharp, pointed, dog-like. 

* * *

In the living room of the safehouse, Blair paced slowly. He had tried to sit next to Jim and read a book, but he couldn't endure it. Not only had the events of this night unnerved him enough, but now being in a room, a quiet, home-like room with Jim was even more unsettling. Just as he would get comfortable on the sofa with a mug of hot tea, his subconscious would take over and suddenly Blair would forget all the events of the past weeks and would feel like nothing had happened. No one had ever threatened them. No one had pushed Jim to the edge and had forced him to kick Blair from the loft. Jim had not betrayed him with Lee Whitmore. And that strange night between him and Sebastian had never occurred. He tried to focus on the other officers milling around the safehouse to help break the mental image that he was back home with Jim. But most of the other officers were milling around the front of the house, and outside in the yard. In the living room, alone with Jim, Blair could feel his defenses dropping away, and his heart started to pull the comfort of this easy domesticity about him like a blanket. When he felt himself reach for Jim's thigh, he quickly jerked back and jumped from the sofa. 

Jim only barely noticed him. His mind, even though it was so tired, raced through the few chunks of evidence that he had that just wouldn't come together -- his suspicion of Didion as the Cuban minister's assassin, the bizarre scene of foul play at Didion's home, the bug in Didion's office, and the pervading smell that said that Blair had been there -- in their home. At that thought, he glanced over to see Blair rush into the kitchen for more tea. His ice blue eyes watched his former guide, sizing him up. He had been so calm tonight, so . . . unsurprised by everything. And now, as the moments passed by, Blair grew more and more agitated. 

In the kitchen, Blair sloppily poured the hot water into his mug, spilling it on the counter. His shaking hand nearly dropped the tea kettle on one of the cold burners. Taking a deep breath, he clutched the edge of the counter top and felt his heart beat racing. /What the hell is going on with me?/ Blair shook his head in frustration and stepped out of the kitchen, completely forgetting the tea. As he returned to pacing, he avoided the living room, knowing that his nervous energy always bothered Jim. He closed his eyes and stopped. Even that small consideration of Jim's feelings felt so comfortable and right and when he realized how unfair it was that Jim had forsaken all of his comforts, it hurt him even more. 

As he paced the safe house, he suddenly found himself walking in the hallway, outside Sebastian's bedroom. His path down the hall grew shorter and shorter, and his steps faster and faster, until like a restless caged wolf, Blair stalked the small area outside Sebastian's room. 

"Blair?" Jim touched his shoulder and Blair nearly leapt against the wall to get away from him. 

Clutching his chest, he shot back, "Jesus, Jim, don't sneak up on me like that!" 

"What's going on here?" 

"I know, I'm sorry --" 

"I can barely hear myself think." 

"I know, I'm pacing, I'm sorry --" 

"It's not your pacing that's bothering me," he said as he stepped towards Sebastian's half closed door. "It's your heart beats. Jeez, both you guys are going off the charts." The light from the hallway cut a yellow trapezoid across the bed, the two men noticed Sebastian lying on his side, trembling fitfully. Instantly Blair shoved Jim aside and sank down on the bed, grabbing Sebastian by the shoulders and shaking him. 

"Wake up, Bass. Wake up. It's just a nightmare." Blair heard his friend moan slightly, and he continued to shake him. "Bass? Come on, Bass, wake up. It's just a dream." 

Sebastian's eyes snapped open, and with a frightened gasp he sprang from the bed, out the door, past Jim and slammed against the wall in the hallway, his arms splayed out. His eyes were wide circles and his chest heaved. Quickly Jim stepped into the room and in an instant his vision cut through the twilight, through the window and out to the yard beyond. "Get down!" he shouted as he pulled Blair to the floor, then scrambled to grab Sebastian in the hallway just as a volley of bullets shattered the glass window and ripped the wall into splinters where the panicked young man had been standing. Jim leapt to his feet, snatching his gun from his holster, and met the other police officers as they hurried towards him from the front of the house. 

"Outside! Outside!" he waved and all of them dashed towards the door. "You two, go around to the left. Cover the back of the house!" 

Checking for other heartbeats, Jim heard none in the front yard. He edged along the side of the house, darted his head out quickly for a peek into the side yard, and when he saw no one, he dropped to his knee and aimed his pistol into the night. 

No one. 

He checked for heartbeats. Still no one. The other officers came from the opposite side of the house, shaking their heads. 

"Damn," Jim muttered, and he stepped towards the center of the yard, where he had clearly seen the dark silhouette standing, taking aim. Then his brow wrinkled with confusion, and he dropped to the ground, running his fingers across the brown, winter-killed grass. 

There weren't even depressions in the grass from the stranger's footsteps. 

But there were drops of blood, dark and shiny under the halogen lamps. 

/Didion?/ 

* * *

After the attack, Jim had wanted to get some idea from Sebastian who could possibly want him dead, but Sebastian wasn't budging. Instead, he had returned to that same panicked state of needing Jim nearby. Jim had no luck finding the gunman who had shot through the window at them. Several of the perimeter guards had been found drugged with something none of the EMT's had ever seen before. The blood that was discovered still unnerved Jim, and he couldn't shake the overwhelming suspicion that Didion, not dead, was responsible. But preliminary lab work had shown the blood type to be different from that found at Didion's house. They had moved Sebastian to a second safehouse, one more secure, and had again sedated him. 

Jim stepped into the bedroom without knocking. "Hey, Sandburg?" Blair, sitting on the side of the bed, watching over Sebastian, looked up at his partner. In the growing light of the morning, Jim could easily see the weariness in Blair's eyes. "Rafe and Brown are here. You ready to go to the station?" 

Blair nodded. "Just a minute." Gently he reached out to caress Sebastian's face. 

The other man stirred, then moaned, "Didion? Is that you?" 

Blair sighed. "It's me, Bass. It's Blair." 

"Where's Didion?" Jim watched as Blair withdrew his hand, his eyes closed. Slowly, Sebastian lifted himself from the bed. "Oh, it's you. Where am I?" 

"We moved you to another safehouse." 

"Why is everything so fuzzy?" 

"We had to sedate you before we could leave the first safehouse." 

Sebastian wiped his eyes before falling back onto the pillow. "Stop doing it. I need to be able to focus. Can't let my guard down." 

"Get some sleep, Bass. They've doubled your guard." 

"Why bother? It's just one nightmare after another." 

Blair turned to look at Jim. "I know what that's like." Jim averted his eyes suddenly. 

"Blair?" 

"Yes, Bass." 

"If you see Didion, will you tell him I miss him?" 

Blair took a deep breath. "Sure, Bass. Sure thing." 

"Tell him I'm waiting for him." 

* * *

With the phone still pressed to his ear, Simon closed his eyes and threw his head back in frustration. "Yes sir," he nodded, "I understand, sir. I'll get started on it now." He wiped his face with his hand. "No sir, Sanders is being kept in a second safehouse for the moment -- yes sir, yes sir, I understand, sir. I'll get started on the transfer right away." Then Simon swallowed, knowing he had to stall for time, and added, "As soon as we receive all the paperwork on this end." 

Wincing, he held the phone away from his ear, the voice of his superior coming through the line strong and angry. Jim damn well better appreciate this. 

"Yes -- yes sir -- I just want to make sure I do this right on my end, that's all. No screw ups. Yes sir. Right away, sir." Simon hung up the phone and groaned. Several moments later, he shouted, "Rhonda!" 

Rhonda stepped inside his office. "Yes, Captain." 

"Check the fax machine. The commissioner should be sending me a fax any minute now." 

"Yes, sir." Rhonda returned to her desk, then stepped back inside less than five minutes later. "This must be what you were looking for, Captain." She handed him the faxed sheets. 

Simon recognized the insignias on the cover sheet. Both the CIA's and the U.S. Army's. He sighed, then turned back the first page to begin reading the paperwork. 

* * *

Jim checked the clock as he sat down at his desk. 8:10. Blair stood near the coffee pot, pouring them both a cup. Neither of them had had any sleep. Once Sebastian had fallen asleep, Jim didn't feel so bad leaving him, but he could tell it was beginning to bother his partner, who constantly checked his watch and the clock on the wall in the bullpen. 

Suddenly Jim was distracted by Simon's "Rhonda!" He watched the young woman jump slightly in her chair before ducking into the captain's office. 

Blair handed him a cup of coffee. "Any word from Forensics yet?" 

Turning back around, Jim shook his head. "No. I was just about to check with Dan. Do you want to go with me?" 

"Sure." Then Blair looked down at his coffee and he thought about what sights awaited him in the Forensics lab. "Maybe I should drink this coffee later." 

Jim smiled slightly. "We still don't have Didion's body. You won't have anything to look at." 

"Dan lives in a room full of bodies, Jim." He swallowed and looked at his feet. "I guess we need to get this over with, though." He turned and headed towards the door. Jim reached out to pat him on the back, then thought better of it. 

Just at the entrance to the bullpen, both men stopped only a few feet from Dr. Ian Yoshito. His hair was mussed and bluish circles darkened his eyes. Blair was the first to speak. "Ian? What are you doing here?" 

"Do you know about Didion Sachs?" he asked, a little pale. 

"Yeah." Blair motioned to Jim. "We were called last night." 

Jim leaned in close. "When did you hear about it?" 

"This morning. It's on the news." 

Jim frowned. "I should have known." 

"How's Collin taking this?" 

Ian turned to Blair. "Who knows? He hasn't said a bloody word all morning." Ian looked at Jim. "I need to talk to you." 

"Oh. Okay." Jim held his hand out towards the bullpen. "My desk's over there. Have a seat. Do you need some coffee?" 

"No. I just need to tell you this." Ian followed both men to Jim's desk. As he sat down, Simon's voice bellowed into the bullpen. 

"Ellison! My office! Right now!" 

Jim held up his hand to Ian. "Just a minute, okay?" 

Flustered, Ian could only manage to say, "Sure," as Jim slipped away. He turned to Blair, who was sitting on the side of Jim's desk. "Are . . . you two . . . back together?" 

Blair shook his head. "We're working together again, and that's awkward enough, to tell the truth. Nothing more, though. I think it might be best this way. At least for now. As it is, we snap at each other at the drop of a hat." 

Ian nodded, then stared down at his clenched fists. 

Blair bent down to speak when suddenly Jim leaned out of Simon's office and shouted, "Sandburg!" 

"Yeah?" 

"Come here." 

"I'll be right back, Ian." Blair crossed the room quickly and entered Simon's office. "What's up?" Jim thrust the fax at him. Blair noticed the insignias on the cover sheet and looked up at Jim. "What is this?" 

"We're being ordered to turn Didion's case over to the Army. They claim it's classified." 

"Classified?" 

"Look at the reason." 

Blair scanned the document, trying to understand the jargon, when his eyes fell across the authorization. 

PROJECT 57 

"Jim, wait --" 

"I know --" 

"Isn't this the project that killed Tom? The one that Ian --?" 

Both men scrambled out of Simon's office and shouted Ian's name at the same time. "Ian!" 

Ian jerked in his seat. Jim waved him into Simon's office. As he came in, Blair closed the door behind him and handed him the fax. "What is this?" the doctor asked. 

"This name, here," Blair pointed. "Isn't that the group that you worked with?" 

Ian read the name and closed his dark, almond-shaped eyes. "Yes. That's the one." He returned the fax to Blair. "What is that?" 

Simon answered him. "The CIA and the Army are taking over Didion Sachs' case." 

Jim spoke up. "Captain, you know this is a cover up." 

"I know that, Jim. I've been stalling them as much as I can this morning. But I can't do anything about it. We have to turn the evidence over immediately." Then Simon looked over at Blair. "And we have to turn Sanders over to their custody." 

"Simon, you can't do that!" Blair protested. "And what do they want with Bass and Didion anyway?" 

Everyone looked at Ian. The doctor stared at his fingers for a moment, when his dark eyes cast upward finally. "That's why I came by this morning." 

After a silence, Blair eased closer. "Ian, what is it?" 

"A few days ago, I . . . well, for a long time I thought Didion looked familiar, but I just couldn't place his face." "But now," Jim asked, "now you do?" 

"Yes. He was a patient in Rallinsburg." Ian glanced at Simon. "He's a soldier who's been --" 

"He's . . . Holy shit, he's a sentinel?!" Jim crossed his arms and turned out of habit to check the window before shooting back, "And . . . and you knew this?!" 

"Only for the past couple of days! I didn't know what to do when I realized it. I didn't know who I could trust." 

"Ian," Blair threw up his hands, "you could have told _us_." 

Ian's eyes narrowed as he looked at both men. "Could I?" 

Blair's mouth gaped open. "What?!" 

"Who can I trust, Blair? In less than a year two hypersensitives show up in my life, not to mention Collin, who's _your_ friend, whose bloody cousin is a . . . is a . . . guide to one of them." Ian collapsed into the chair nearest the door. "I don't know what the hell is going on any more. I don't know who I can trust." 

Kneeling down in front of him, Blair placed his hand on Ian's knee. "Ian, Jim and I, we didn't know. I . . . I'm floored. You can trust us." 

"How can I? I can't even trust Collin for Christ's sake." 

"Of course you can trust Collin." 

"How do you know that?" Jim asked, suddenly standing over Blair. 

"Because he's my friend," Blair replied angrily, pulling himself up to glare at Jim. 

"But he and Bass are cousins--" 

"So what?" 

"That's too huge a coincidence, Chief. Collin has to know. He has to be involved." 

"Jim, I know Collin." 

"How long have you known him?" 

"For over a year." Blair shoved him in the chest. "What is it with you, man?" 

"I'm just not as trusting." 

Blair eyed him hard. "Yeah . . . I know." "Ellison! Sandburg!" Simon barked. "This is not the time or the place. In a few minutes, agents will be walking in here to seize what evidence we have. And then I'll have to turn Sanders over to them. It sounds like this is all a moot point." 

"Come on, Sandburg." Jim tugged on his shirt sleeve. 

"Where are we going?" 

"There's only one person who knows what the hell's going on, and that's Bass." Leaning back into the office, Jim added, "Stall them as long as you can, Captain." 

* * *

In a penthouse office overlooking Seattle and Mount Rainier, a solitary man in his late thirties sat behind a large, polished burlwood desk, sipping a cafe latte from a white porcelain cup and studying several reports in front of him. Tall, neoclassical windows paned by blond woods allowed light to stream into the office, and between each window stood tall Carrara marble statues of Roman heroes. His dark brown hair was perfectly groomed in a soft wave away from his vivid green eyes. He pinched his smooth, dimpled chin with his thumb and forefinger as he scanned one document before slowly laying it down on the desk to pick up another. 

Two thick wooden doors opened at the entrance to his office, and he glanced up to see a young man pass through, closing the doors behind him. Without any expression, the man behind the desk raised his arm, revealing a simple gold ring with a large emerald on his finger. Walking around, the black-haired newcomer placed the magnate's hand in his, bending down to kiss the ring. "Am I disturbing you, Lord Burlington?" he asked. 

Burlington slowly pulled his hand free. "What is your report, Perth?" 

"Didion Sachs is dead, your grace." 

"And the body?" 

"The Cascade police have declared it missing." 

"I assumed they would. I suppose our suspicions were correct. And his assistant?" 

"He is not dead yet, your grace." 

"What of the Order centurion I sent against him last night?" 

"He was not successful, your grace. He was wounded during the operation. I suspect a second Ranger attacked him from a distance, as usual." 

Burlington didn't seem affected by the news. "Have you identified this second agent?" 

"Not at this point, your grace." 

"Keep at it. Use as many Order centurions as you need. Now send in Cordova." 

"Yes, your grace." Perth turned to leave. 

"Perth?" Burlington called out. 

"Yes, your grace?" 

"Make sure Sachs' assistant is dead before sundown." 

"Yes, your grace." Perth stepped out of the room, and a few moments later, a young woman of medium height, long, black hair and bright gray eyes entered. Just as Perth had done, she moved around the desk to kiss Burlington's ring. She herself had a similar ring with a dark ruby. 

"Lord Burlington." 

"Are you in place, Cordova?" 

"Yes, your grace. The Salvadoran ambassador was easily persuaded." 

"No doubt." He read the last line of the report in his hand before putting it down. "Very good. Your mission is still to follow standard Order procedure. You only need to manage the delegates. If at any time any member of the Salvadoran delegation agrees to sign the proposed trade agreement with the U.S., inform the Order. Once a member of their family is killed, I will let you know so that you can then relay that information to them." 

"Yes, your grace." 

"And be on guard. There is a second Army Ranger in your territory. We haven't located him yet." 

"I'll be on my guard, your grace." 

"Thank you, Cordova. You may leave now." 

"Yes, your grace," she said as she bowed, then left. 

* * *

With his jaw muscles tense and his eyes dark with anger, Jim flashed his badge to the officer guarding the doorway. The uniformed officer recognized Jim as he walked up the sidewalk, but he still waited for the badge for protocol's sake before stepping aside, especially after last night's attack. Blair followed Jim inside, and both men went directly into the den to find Sebastian. The dazed young man sat on the edge of the sofa's blue cushions, holding a mug of coffee with both hands but not drinking from it. His eyes were puffy and swollen, and his cheeks were red and streaked. 

Blair knelt down in front of him and gently placed his hand on his friend's knee. "Bass? We haven't found Didion's body. You know he's not dead." Without moving his vision away from the still, reflective surface of his coffee, Sebastian replied, "Oh, Didion's dead all right. You can count on that." 

Jim's angry voice boomed in the small room. "How do you know this?" Blair shot him a warning glance that Jim ignored. 

"They aren't going to let him live." 

"They? You mean Project 57?" Jim asked. Finally Sebastian's eyes looked up at Jim, and the two men stared at each other for a long while, challenging each other. 

Blair broke in by standing and moving to sit on the sofa with Sebastian, between Jim and his friend. "What do you know about Project 57?" 

Glancing at Blair, he answered, "I know they are extremely dangerous. I know they killed Didion. Or, I think they were the ones." He wiped his eyes. "Give up on finding a body. You know damn well they aren't going to let you near it. That would be like proving the existence of vampires." Then he stood and faced Jim. Softly he said, "I'm sorry. I do appreciate the way you put me in these safehouses, but they aren't going to let me live much longer, either." A little less bravely, he added, "I need to face that." He moved around Jim and headed towards the kitchen. 

"Didion was a sentinel, wasn't he?" Jim shouted out to him, making Sebastian stop and turn around. 

Unable to speak, Sebastian only nodded. 

Blair moved quickly to Sebastian's side. "Then you know Jim's one, too?" 

"Yes." 

"That's why you needed him last night? To guard you?" 

"You lied to us," Jim accused him through gritted teeth, his hands squeezed into tight fists. 

To Jim's surprise, Sebastian only shrugged his shoulders. "What? You expect me to care about your feelings right now? Jim, the man I love is dead. I will never, ever, place my hand against his face and see him smile. Do you have any idea how much that hurts me? I've had to live with this fear for two years, that one day I'll walk out the door, and when I walk back into it, he'll be gone." His eyes grew wet, and his voice trembled. "He slipped into my life unknown, Jim. Just slipped in." Then he broke. "And now . . . he's slipped out . . . and I never got a chance to say goodbye." 

Angrily, he wiped the tears from his face. "Anyway, my days are numbered. If Project 57 doesn't kill me, the others will." 

Sebastian's emotions did little to alleviate Jim's anger, stoked by thoughts of how both men had betrayed him. "Who else?" 

Sebastian shook his head in dismissal and walked into the kitchen. Jim chased after him. "Who else, Bass? Who else would scare you so badly that you wouldn't let me leave your side last night? Someone who only a sentinel could stop? Someone who could walk on grass without leaving an impression? Who is it?" 

Dropping his mug on the counter and turning on Jim swiftly, Sebastian fired back, "Men so fucking dangerous that our government had to create an army of hypersensitives just to fight them, that's who! Last night should have been proof enough of that! Men who have kept me on the run for two years! Men who nearly killed me in New York!" 

"Who?! Who was that man last night?" 

Suddenly the voice of the uniformed guard broke in. "Detective Ellison?" 

"What?!" When Jim spun around, he noticed the two men in dark suits standing behind the guard. "What is it?!" 

"These men claim to be CIA. They say they're here to take custody of Mr. Sanders." 

Sebastian poured his coffee into the sink. "Gentlemen, it looks like my firing squad's arrived." He turned to Blair. "Goodbye, Blair." Sebastian pulled him into a tight hug and whispered, "I love you. I really do. Despite all the charades." 

"I know you do. I can feel it." 

"At least by tonight I'll get to see Didion again." 

When Sebastian finally pulled free, Blair sprang into action, stepping between him and the two CIA agents. "Jim, you can't let this happen." 

Jim ignored his guide. "Help me out here, Bass. Tell me who these people are." 

One of the agents interrupted, flashing his badge. "I'm afraid that's classified information, detective. Now step aside please and let us take charge of our prisoner." 

Blair's eyes grew wide. "Your prisoner?" 

Sebastian placed his hand on Blair's shoulder. "This is inevitable, Blair. Don't make it any worse." 

"You . . . you aren't going to try to fight this?" 

"You can't save me, Blair. Only another hypersensitive can, and now that Didion's dead --" he looked into Jim's eyes, "-- I'm all alone." He stepped around his friend and moved towards the agents. "Let's get this over with, gentlemen." 

As Blair watched his friend leaving, he turned to Jim. "You aren't going to stop them? Jim, they're going to kill him." 

Jim only crossed his arms, his anger very apparent on his face. "We don't know that." 

Blair's eyes narrowed and he hissed, "I'm not through with you yet." He hurried to the front to watch one of the agents open the back seat door in the light blue Taurus sedan for Sebastian to enter. As he did, the young man looked one last time at Blair as the door was shut behind him. A few moments later, the car pulled into the street and drove away. 

Jim stepped slowly behind Blair, his eyes noticing a red Mustang pull up behind it, being driven by a young man with large, boyish eyes and a military haircut. Focusing his vision, he spotted the license plate and memorized it. 

Then Blair pushed him hard in the chest. "You didn't do a damn thing to stop them because you were angry with him." 

"Okay, yes, I'm pissed at him. He deceived us. But I can't stop the CIA, Chief. I didn't have a choice. You knew this morning they were going to take him." 

"No," Blair replied harshly, "that just provided _you_ with a good excuse." 

"Don't take it out on me, Sandburg. I couldn't have stopped them and you know it." 

Blair threw up his hands and stormed away. Jim rubbed his jaw. /Are you still in love with Bass? Is that what's going on?/ His hand fell to his side. /Is that why you were at their home last night?/ He forced the thoughts down, not ready to face the implications. 

* * *

Standing for a moment outside the doorway to the penthouse suite, Miriam paused. She held up her fist, ready to knock on the polished white door with gold baroque trim, then couldn't do it. She had overslept this morning, then rushed to get dressed. She hadn't even watched the morning news yet. /For all I know, we could be at war right now. Or worse, Brad Pitt just got married. Oi./ Nervously, she ran her hands through her hair, feeling damp curls. Some of the hair tangled in the many silver rings on her fingers. "Oh, for god's sake, let's get this shit over with." With a brave facade, she rapped her knuckles on the door. 

A few moments later, a young Hispanic man answered the door. "Yes?" he asked with a thick accent. 

"My name is Miriam Frohmeir. I've been assigned by Portland Community College to act as a translator for your group." 

"Un momento." He motioned for her to step inside. As she did, Miriam took in the sheer size of the room. A large conference table stretched along the side wall, bordered by glass windows overlooking downtown. She could make out Puget Sound through the morning fog. The room was busy with many people, most of them wearing suits, rushing back and forth. Finally, a woman approached her. She stood eye to eye with Miriam, her long black hair thick and flowing about her shoulders. She held out her hand for Miriam to shake. 

"I apologize. I just came in from Seattle. I hope I haven't kept you waiting." 

"No. Not at all. I'm Miriam Frohmeir." 

"Beverly Cordova. Pleased to meet you. Do sit down." 

Both women moved to the comfortable overstuffed chairs in a small niche, away from the bustle of the room. "I brought my VITA, in case you need it." 

"Oh, that won't be necessary. I've already researched you." 

Miriam arched her eyebrow. "You researched me?" 

"Yes." Cordova crossed her legs. "Your dissertation on Leopoldo Lugones was very interesting." She paused, and a hard look came into her eyes. "If a little predictable. Of course you would compare his works to those of Ezra Pound, but I think it's obvious that the comparison is due to the fact that both men were avid readers of Jacques Laforgue's poetry." 

Miriam gaped at her mutely. 

"However, your language skills will serve our delegation well. You will have two main projects." 

"And they would be?" Miriam asked, finally finding her voice. 

"I need you to monitor the correspondences between our delegation and other non-Hispanic nations . . . with the exception of the G-8 nations. Those are my responsibility. You'll find that most of the delegates here are fluent in English, but I need a native speaker who can spot colloquialisms and jargon. Keep us from making a legal gaffe." 

"I can do that." 

"And secondly, there will be a public ceremony this Friday afternoon." 

"What sort of ceremony?" 

"During the last civil war in El Salvador, the people of Cascade donated a great deal of money, food and clothes to assist those forced from their farms. Deputy Minister Raul Velarde is leading this delegation, and he was one of the generals fighting against the civil government. In gratitude, and as a show of the nation's current stability, he will be presenting a plaque to the city as a token of his government's appreciation. Heal wounds from both sides. Since I am the principle translator for this delegation, I'll be managing the ceremony, but I'll need you as a backup. Can you handle public speaking?" 

"Well, I stand up in front of classroom full of people all day. I don't think that would be a problem." 

"Good. I'll show you to your work area." 

* * *

Phillip Harrison easily steered his red Mustang through the sharp curves that lead to Didion Sachs' mansion in the hills above the city. He drove with his fingertips, the radio silent, listening with his sentinel hearing to the minute sounds of the engine and the tires against the asphalt. But his hazel eyes remained focused on the light blue Taurus ahead of him. Sebastian sat, almost timidly in the back. Phillip knew he was scared. He had sensed it when he was at Didion's last night. He had followed Sebastian back to the mansion, saw the open door with the blood spilled on the front steps, and he had remained a good distance away while he listened to Sebastian's heart hammering as he ran through the mansion in a panic before calling the police. How he had wanted to burst in and comfort him, to let him know that he would be the one to guard him from The Order, and not to rely on this barely sympathetic cop with the random luck of being born a sentinel. But that night, at the mansion, he had sensed someone else in the surrounding forests, and although the countless other officers on the scene had confused his hearing and he couldn't pinpoint the stranger's position, he had decided to remain protective. 

If he hadn't, Sebastian would already be dead. Last night he had seen The Order assassin step into the side yard and pull out the Uzzi. In an instant, over 500 feet away, Phillip aimed his silenced rifle. He chose not to kill him in front of the safehouse and reveal too much to the police, and so he winged the hitman in the shoulder. From a distance, he watched the enemy assassin hobble into the shadows just as Jim and the others burst through the front door like angry ants. Moments later, Phillip tracked the wounded assassin and finished him off. 

Phillip gazed ahead, letting his vision focus on Sebastian in the back seat. He could see the intermittent sunlight on this cold October day reflecting off Sebastian's gleaming black hair, and he dreamed of running his fingers through it. A few weeks ago, he was in a state of panic about these fantasies, but now his lust had driven those fears into the shadows. At night, he wished for Sebastian in his bed, warm, firm, hungry, his black goatee scratching Phillip's neck and muscled chest as he trailed downwards, towards his aching cock. Phillip shifted uneasily in his seat, trying to adjust his hardening cock aroused by these thoughts of Sebastian. His dream was so close, so close to finally happening. Even as he hungered for him, there was something else occurring, something he would only assume was the instinct Sebastian had told him about. It wasn't just the thought of fucking Sebastian that drove him wild -- it was a burning need to protect him, to guard over him, to hold him tightly as they both fell asleep at night. 

The curving road wound deeper into the hills, and the surroundings became more wooded, choked with tall Douglas firs and dark ferns. He let his vision move away from Sebastian in the car ahead of him to scan the forest and to watch the puffy white clouds against the dark blue sky. 

Suddenly he felt the steering wheel jerk beneath his fingers and he snatched at the wheel to regain control. He instantly sensed it was a flat tire as his Mustang insisted on veering to the right. With the steering wheel shaking and rattling in his hands, he forced the car onto the shoulder of the road. He rolled his eyes, then got out of the car. His right front tire had blown. "Great. Just great." A few moments later, his cell phone chirped. "Harrison, here." 

"You all right back there?" 

It was one of the CIA agents. Phillip didn't like that they had been brought into this, but he was the only agent in the area and needed someone to pick up Sebastian and shut down the local investigation into Didion's death without blowing his cover. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just blew a tire." 

"You need us to come back and get you?" 

He thought of Sebastian in the back seat. "No, don't bother. Get Bass to a safe place and I'll catch up with you in a minute. I have a spare." 

"See you then." 

Phillip switched off his cell phone and tossed it in the driver's seat before popping the trunk. He walked around to the back of his sports car and thought, /Of all days to get a flat tire./ He wrestled with the spare when he noticed a strange sound. He perked up his hearing, stepping back away from the car. It sounded fuzzy, like static . . . or white noise. He instantly extended his hearing as much as he could, and unable to hear a heartbeat, all he could hear was a vague white noise that seemed to be coming from everywhere. 

/Someone knows I'm hypersensitive. Someone's blocking their heartbeat./ 

When he heard through the static the unmistakable click of a rifle chamber being loaded, Phillip bolted for cover. Seconds later, as he leapt behind the trunk of a long fallen Douglas fir, he heard the sharp ping of a bullet piercing metal an instant before the gas tank exploded, engulfing his sportscar in a raging orange fireball. 

Once the overwhelming sound of the flames subsided, Phillip tried to listen for the white noise. It was still there, but it was getting weaker, as though the gunman were moving away. /The Order,/ he thought. /Bass is walking into a trap! And my guns were in the car!/ 

* * *

There were times, after Jim had forced Blair from the loft, when things were tense between them. Not just when they were shouting -- those times which were so easy to divide from their normal conversations -- all those times when things were thrown. But there were times, in the bullpen, on an investigation site, when the simplest words were the toughest to speak. As Jim flipped his signal in the truck to turn left, towards Collin and Blair's apartment, he couldn't remember a more tense, unsettling time with Blair. His guide -- if he was still his guide -- this man he loved -- and he knew Blair was still the man he would die for -- sat in the truck as far away from Jim as he could possibly get, literally squeezing his shoulder against the glass window. Jim would have laughed if the body language hadn't hurt him so badly. Without even closing his eyes, Jim could vividly remember the expression on Blair's face when he watched Sebastian being driven away. Blair said it was to his doom, but Jim wasn't so sure. He seriously doubted that the CIA would execute the man. But Blair believed it, and he was certain that Jim was only too happy to see the other man being dragged away. 

His anger at Jim's "betrayal" of Sebastian was nothing in comparison to the tirade that occurred when he mentioned that they should then proceed to Blair's apartment to find Collin and question him. 

Blair had looked at him first, confused, as if he had been slapped unexpectedly. And then, as the words began to sink in, he pulled in his breath like a sail and gave vent to such a fierce argument that Jim could only stand there, speechless, as the words blew across him. As tired as he was without any sleep, he was tempted to start shouting himself, but he knew Blair's reaction had a lot to do with how worn out he was, so he clenched his jaw, counted to ten, then said, "Sandburg, right now, I'm only interested in finding out what he might know about Didion from being Bass' cousin. Okay?" 

Blair had thrown up his hands, his fingers splayed like daggers, and he had spit out, "Fine." 

Now, on the drive over to Blair and Collin's apartment, his guide sat coldly with his arms crossed, not speaking, only glaring through the windshield at the passing streets. 

Once there, Blair unlocked their apartment door and stepped inside. As he did, Collin glanced up from the sofa, his expression blank but his eyes darkened by rings and strangely saddened. "Hey, Blair," he managed, yet when he saw Jim following him inside, he added. "Oh . . . Jim." Looking back to Blair, he said, "If y'all are together, I take it this is not a social call." He closed his book on the coffee table. 

"We, uhm, looked for you at the university," Blair mentioned as he sat down beside his roommate. 

"I decided not to go in today." 

"I take it then that you've heard?" 

"Yes." 

Jim suddenly spoke up. "I see you're not that broken up by it." 

Collin almost laughed. "No more than the two of you." 

"Where were you last night?" 

"I was in my office most of the night until I went over to Ian's. And no, Miss Marple, I don't have an alibi. Had I known someone was going to take care of Didion last night I would have made better plans." He stood up and headed toward the kitchen. 

Blair replied, "Someone tried to kill Bass last night." 

Collin spun around. "What? Who?" 

"We thought you might be able to answer that." Jim said. 

"Me? You can't be serious! Why would I want to kill Bass?!" 

Jim tensed his jaw, fighting his exhaustion. "I know you didn't try to shoot Bass. I thought you might be able to tell me who would, though." 

"I . . ." Collin looked around the apartment, obviously rattled. "I wouldn't know," he mumbled before slipping into the hall. 

Jim and Blair eyed each other before both men slowly followed him down the hall and into his bedroom. Collin still seemed dazed, and Blair said, "Collin, we don't really know much about what's going on. Bass was really scared last night, and then this morning, he hinted around that there were people who wouldn't let him live very long." 

Collin sat down on his bed and closed his eyes. "I . . . I guess that makes sense." 

"How?" Jim barked. 

Collin looked up, his eyes a jumble of emotions, both fear and regret. "Didion was a dangerous man." 

"How dangerous?" 

"He swore countless times to kill me if I ever told anyone anything about him." 

"He's dead now," Jim said. 

"Have you found a body?" Collin looked first to Blair and then to Jim. "Talk to me when you find a body I can kick." 

"Collin," Blair sat next to him, "we can't afford this. Bass is in trouble and he acts like Jim is the only person who can protect him." Then Blair glared at Jim. "Or at least he did last night." Jim glanced down at his feet. "We need to know why. So far, all we know is that Didion was . . ." Blair bit back his words. 

"An assassin," Collin finished his words demurely. 

Blair looked up at Jim quickly with a slightly opened mouth. 

"What did you say?!" the sentinel asked. 

Collin sighed with exhaustion as he lifted up his eyes to see Jim. "I said he was an assassin." 

Jim's jaw tensed even tighter and he crossed his arms. "How do you know this . . . and from the beginning." He pointed with his finger. 

After a moment of silence, Collin reached over to his bedside table, opened a drawer, then slowly retrieved a nicely framed picture which he handed to Blair. Blair examined the picture of a very handsome police officer with dark black, wavy hair, dimpled chin, bright blue eyes and a charming smile. "Who is this?" 

"That's Brian." 

"Your partner? I didn't know you had a picture of him." 

Collin took the picture from him and began to trace Brian's outline with his finger. "It's been two years, and I still haven't gotten over him. I've," he swallowed hard, then began again, "I've never loved anyone like that since." 

Jim asked, "What does this have to do with Didion?" 

"I found out, from Didion in fact, that he and Brian were sleeping together. That's why he left me." 

"You said once that Didion was after another gay officer. One that you said reminded you of Jim. I think his name was . . ." 

"Scott. After Brian and I broke up, Didion stopped seeing Brian suddenly and started seeing Bass. So Brian and Scott started dating." Collin looked up at the two men, then took a deep breath, unable to go on. 

"You said Scott killed himself. Because the other officers began to harass him." 

Jim tensed his jaw at Blair's words. "Wait a minute. Say that again." 

Collin stared at Jim for a moment, then said softly. "They received threats, in the form of typed notes." 

Both Blair and Jim froze. "Notes? You never told me this." 

Finally Jim said, "Go on." 

"They were threatening to kill Brian if Scott didn't leave the force." 

Blair stood up from the bed, suddenly very uncomfortable. "Is there more?" 

He closed his eyes, unable to witness their expressions when at last he told them. "These notes included red velvet circles, soaked in herbal essences." Then he stared down at his hands. "And once, Brian was forced into the hospital . . . for e-coli." 

Blair could feel the heat rising off his skin as he spun around to face the wall, unable to look at Collin. When he finally turned around, his fists were clenched tight and his tone of voice was cold. "All that time you saw me and Jim going through the same damn thing, you never once said a fucking word?" 

Collin twisted on the bed, his knee rising onto the mattress. "Blair, what could I do? I couldn't tell you! Didion swore he'd kill me, and I believed it! I've seen him do it before! And he told me that there were others like him who would kill me if he didn't. And I tried, Blair, I tried to make you figure this out for yourself," he pleaded. "And I tried to convince Bass to step in and stop this but he wouldn't. They both said that you and Jim would die if I got involved. After seeing Scott kill himself, I knew they weren't bluffing and I was scared for you both. They said that after their assignment was done, that they were going to leave y'all alone to get back together. I tried, Blair! I'm just not good at this sort of thing and I didn't know what to do!" 

This still didn't mollify Blair as he began to pace. "You put that message on my laptop, didn't you?" Collin nodded. 

"I should have known. Divide and conquer, _in Latin_. Only you would be that pompous." 

Collin turned away and looked at Jim, who suddenly averted his eyes. 

"And this is why you were constantly telling me to fight for Jim. You knew Didion and Bass were the ones who broke us up. But you never just came out and told me. You let me go through the worst fucking time of my life and you never said a goddamn thing." 

"How did you know Didion was an assassin?" Jim asked to turn the conversation. 

"In Atlanta, right after he met Bass, I started following Didion. Most times he knew, but it was during the Olympics, and it was really crowded. I had seen him run into a parking garage near Woodruff Park. I was standing at the bottom of the stairs, closest to the air conditioners, so maybe he didn't hear me. And then all of a sudden, he was running down the stairs carrying a rifle. He started to shoot me but then he stopped. I had never been so scared in my life. He told me that the only reason he didn't kill me on the spot was because of Bass, but that if I ever said anything about it again, he'd kill me anyway because he had to. Later I found out that a man was shot on Dobbs and Peachtree Street." 

"So all this time, he's never killed you because of Bass." 

"I'm guessing so." 

"Yet you wouldn't do the right thing and tell us about the threats he made? Jesus, Collin, he nearly killed Blair!" 

Collin raised his sad green eyes. "He also told me he would personally put a bullet in Ian's brain. So tell me what the hell I was supposed to do, then, huh? It's one thing to put my own life in danger, but it's entirely something different to put your lover's life on the line without his consent." 

Jim turned quickly, his hands shaking. Once in the hallway, his rage overcame him and he slammed his fists against the wall, shouting. Never had he felt so betrayed and humiliated. He had accepted both Didion and Bass as friends, trusted them in his own small way, only to feel like a target and a chump. Then the shame followed as he threw back his head and realized that Didion and Bass were responsible for causing him to hurt the only person in his life who mattered. He had eaten with Didion, he had raced with him and shared the victory, he had even spent a night drinking with him, to console each other when both had realized their lovers had been unfaithful. And even when he had suspected Didion was involved in Rene Dias' assassination, he still held out some modicum of doubt, some small hope that he was wrong, because he liked Didion. He liked Didion. He felt like such an incredible fool. 

Hearing someone behind him, Jim swung around. Blair stood in the hallway outside Collin's door, his hands in his pockets and his expression still angry. /How can I face you?/ Jim thought. /I hurt you. I hurt you for no reason./ 

* * *

Phillip paused along the side of the road, bracing his back against a mossy tree, to listen. The white noise disguising the gunman was now so distant that he wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not. What he surmised was that the gunman was climbing straight up the hillside to Didion's home. When he had tried that route, the gunman had shot at him, his aim precise through the undergrowth. The only way Phillip could think to evade him and possibly reach the mansion in time was to run along the road until he had cleared the gunman's position, then climb up on the other side of the steep hill and maybe outflank him. 

The young assassin gambled that he was now clear, and he darted across the road. No shots were fired. He didn't wait for long, racing up the almost vertical hillside, clutching onto ferns and saplings for leverage. Higher and higher he climbed, and as his body protested, he pictured Sebastian in his mind, needing him, wanting him. Fifteen minutes later, he was at the mansion. /Need to get to the agents' car. Get a gun./ With crab-like steps, he scrambled around the side of the mansion, climbing higher towards the back where the cars were parked. 

A hundred feet from the Taurus, still guarded by forest, Phillip rested, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. With his hearing pitched, he scanned the building. Three heartbeats. None were calm. One of them was definitely Sebastian's -- a heartbeat he had memorized these past few days. /Nothing's happened yet. I can still protect him./ 

Phillip took one step forward. 

The sudden shock wave knocked him to his feet, rolling him into a small depression just seconds before the now mangled Ford Taurus flew over his head, smashing down the saplings until it wrapped around the sturdy trunk of a fir tree and exploded. With it came thousands of shards of stone and splintered wood that cut his exposed flesh. The sound of the explosion reached him next, so loud that Phillip cried out in pain. Then he felt the heat of the fire coursing away from the center of the explosion. Phillip held his breath and waited for the fireball to roll over him. For several seconds, debris rained down. 

Phillip remained in the pit, his arms protecting his head, his body covered by shredded saplings and rubble, unable to understand what had just happened. Slowly, still not thinking, he pushed aside the trash and raised himself. 

What he saw further wiped away his gathering thoughts. Where only seconds ago there had stood an impressive mansion, now lay a blackened, smoky crater, deep in the hillside, without even foundations left. 

Dazed, the young man fell to his knees. It was several moments before he realized what had happened. Lifting up his eyes, he whispered, "Bass?" /I . . . failed you./ Then he began to weep, falling on his side in the rough gravel. 

* * *

Blair stalked past Jim, leaving him in the hallway as he snatched up his coat and ran outside. Jim remained there for a second, trying to understand all the implications of what he had just learned. /Didion was responsible. Didion threatened Blair. . . . no . . . . Didion tricked me, the entire time. He tricked me./ Slowly, he followed behind Blair, suddenly wanting him, if only to talk. /Just talk to me, Blair. Please? Guide me./ 

Once outside, he saw Blair pacing in the parking lot. Jim descended the stairs and carefully approached. "Blair?" 

The young academic stopped his pacing and stared, utterly silent. 

"Blair, I . . . I don't know what to say." 

"About what, Jim?" His tone of voice was cold. 

"I . . . I didn't know it was Didion." 

"How does that change things, Jim? How does that change things?" 

Jim could only look at Blair with a sad, trapped expression. 

"The fact remains that with some provocation, you threw me out and told me to never see you again." 

"But, Blair, that was because --" 

"Oh, no you don't! Do not go there! Do not stand there and say it was because you loved me so much because if that was the case, you would have certainly had a lot more respect for me and for what we had than to turn around in less than a month's time and _fuck_ Lee Whitmore. And I don't think Didion made you do that, now did he?" 

Jim stood there, open mouthed, frozen. There was nothing he could say to that. /Blair's right. He's right./ He felt his heart crumbling as he realized he had truly lost Blair forever, and that it was solely his fault. He turned, unable to look at what he had lost any longer, and his steel blue eyes gazed at the mountains, searching for some relief. He felt as if at any moment he was going to fall apart. 

Letting his eyes rest upon the dark green hillsides surrounding the city, he didn't register at first the sudden puff of smoke and fire in the distance. When the sound reached his sharp ears, so, too, came the understanding of what he was witnessing and where it was coming from. 

"Oh my god," he whispered. 

* * *

Jim stood near the brick and wood strewn crater, his arms crossed and his mind clouded. Just twelve hours ago, he had stood here, at this very site, surrounded by polished redwood and the finest Greco-Roman antiques. Just a little over a hundred feet away, Didion and Sebastian had made dinner for Blair and him at a time when they were deeply in love. Now, there was nothing left. /Nothing standing./ Jim closed his eyes. /And nothing in the heart./ A sound distracted him. After so many years on the force, seeing the corpse dogs sniffing around the blast areas, barking out the discovered bits and pieces of unidentified bone, still made his stomach turn. Other officers picked apart the rubble, looking for evidence of the explosive. The detective glanced over his shoulder, and his heart sank for the millionth time since he and Blair had arrived. 

Blair, his guide, sat on the ground near Jim's truck, his clenched fists against his eyes, rocking. Jim took a deep, pained breath, then stepped back towards Blair for yet another attempt. As he did, he tried to understand why Blair was so upset. /You are in love with Bass, aren't you?/ He felt his chest ache with the sense of abandonment. Then he shook his head, not wanting to believe it. Seating himself beside Blair, Jim placed his hand on the academic's shoulder. 

Instantly, Blair bolted from the ground. 

Sighing, Jim rolled his head in defeat. "Come on, Chief," he tried. 

"I told you to leave me alone, Jim." 

"Blair, please, talk to me." 

"There's nothing left to say, Jim. Bass is dead. And Didion is dead." 

Jim leapt from this seat. "I never wanted to see them dead, Chief!" 

"You . . . you . . ." Blair stepped away, then turned sharply. "You are such a fucking brick wall. How many times do I have to fight with you, huh? I tried to tell you to trust me when those threats were happening, but you just shoved me out the door. And then I tried to tell you that Bass was in danger, and you just said nothing would happen to him. I'm sick of this, Jim. You never listen to me. You don't respect me. I may not be a _cop_ , but I will not be treated like this. Do you understand me? Is that getting through your fucking skull?" 

Raising his hands in surrender, Jim said, "Blair, I'm not fighting that. You were right. I was wrong. Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?" 

Blair twisted several times in his steps, frustrated, angry, upset, his face streaked. "You just don't get it. . . . Just . . . just leave me alone." 

"Blair, there's only one thing I want right now." 

He pointed his finger at Jim. "Don't. I so don't want to hear this right now." 

"I want you to know how very, very sorry I am, for everything." 

Blair closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging. 

"And that I love you, more than I ever have." 

At those words, Blair waved his hands in the air as if brushing back biting flies, walking away from Jim. "It's too much. I can't take this, Jim. Not now. It's just too fucking much to handle all at once." Jim turned his head, unable to watch him walk away. /Oh my god. You did fall in love with Bass./ 

* * *

Back at the station, Jim did something he rarely felt comfortable with. Not even knocking on Simon's door, he quietly slipped inside his captain's office, shut the door, then fell into the chair in front of Simon's desk and dropped his head in his hands. Simon peered at him for a moment, chewing on his cigar then, finally, he said, "Jim, you look like shit." 

Jim only raised an eyebrow when he looked up at his friend, the exhaustion so very apparent. 

Simon dropped his cigar in his ashtray. "For what it's worth, Jim, I'm sorry." 

"For what?" 

"Sachs. And Sanders." 

"They weren't friends of mine." 

"But I thought they were." 

"Didion and Bass were the ones who threatened Blair. Didion was in Covert Ops and all those trips into the station to meet with the commissioner were just a cover to leave the threats. I don't know how he did it, but he's responsible for Blair getting e-coli. And I think he had something to do with Dias' assassination." 

Simon stared at Jim, dumbfounded. "How long have you known this?" 

"Today. Except for Dias. I've suspected that for a while." 

"And you never reported it?" 

Jim looked out the window, trying to understand why he had kept his suspicions to himself. His tired eyes scanned the city grown dark with yet another nightfall. "I . . . I don't know why I didn't. . . . I guess I was just hoping I was wrong." 

Both were silent for a while, before Simon began again. "How's Sandburg?" 

Jim threw up his hands. "I give up. He's so angry at me. He won't let me come near him." 

"Why? Doesn't he know that Didion Sachs was behind the threats?" 

"He says it doesn't matter. He says he's mad at me for kicking him out, period." 

"Well, I admit, he's got a point." Simon watched Jim's eyes close with guilt, and he tried to reassure him some. "Still, the kid forgives everyone. Surely he won't stay mad at you for long just because you were trying to protect him." Jim stood up and turned to the window, his arms across his chest. Simon could feel something was wrong, and he asked, "Is there something else?" 

After a long silence, Jim confessed, "I slept with Agent Whitmore." 

"You what?!" 

Jim couldn't say it again. 

"When?" 

"Not long after . . ." 

"After Sandburg?" 

Jim squeezed his eyes tighter. 

"Jesus, Jim. Why?" 

"I don't know why!" Jim sprang from his chair to pace. "I just remember being so angry. I wanted to hurt someone." 

"Hurt Sandburg?" 

"No, not Sandburg. Whitmore. I was so angry at him--" 

"But why?" 

"I don't know why! And when it was over, I couldn't even believe it had happened." 

Simon sighed heavily. "Well, I'm sorry, Jim. Wish there was something I could do." 

Jim only nodded. "It gets worse." 

"You're kidding me." 

"Blair slept with Bass Sanders. And judging from his reaction today, I think he had--" Jim swallowed first. "--feelings for him." 

Simon remained silent, letting the revelation sink in. "Jim . . . I don't know what to say." 

"I know. I know." He looked Simon in the eye. "Any news so far?" 

"Not much. Most of the evidence was seized this morning." 

"What about the explosion?" 

"So far, no one's stopping us." Simon pushed a file over to Jim. "This came in after the CIA seized the evidence. I decided not to forward it." Jim opened the file. His eyes scanned across the text, detailing the make and model of the listening devices found in Didion's home. The insulation was American made -- CIA designed. 

"This insulation," Jim began. "I think it's there to keep a sentinel from hearing it." 

Simon took the file from him. "There's not much more we can tell about it. From what I heard, the minute they identified it, the CIA showed up to seize it. This report's a copy of one that our lab was writing." 

Jim placed his hands on his hips. "Simon, send someone to the loft. Have them check for these same bugs." 

"You think you've been bugged, too?" 

"Only makes sense. Didion knew I was a sentinel. Somebody else had to tell him. And that somebody's the one we need to find." 

The phone rang. "Captain Banks, here." After a moment, he replied, "Thanks," before dropping the receiver. "Get down to Forensics. Dan has something to show Sandburg." 

"Sandburg?" 

"Is he still here?" 

"Yeah, he's somewhere. I'll go find him." 

Simon watched as Jim slowly, almost reluctantly, left the sanctity of his office to find Blair. He frowned slightly and felt some sympathy for him. 

* * *

As Blair and Jim walked down the hallway towards Forensics, neither spoke. They had gone without sleep last night, what with Didion's death and the attack on Sebastian in the early dawn. And then this afternoon was stolen by the explosion. Jim groaned slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck, then looked at his partner. The sleep deprivation was bad enough on him, but Blair was dealing with the sudden shock of losing his friend both to death and betrayal. Jim could practically feel the soreness in Blair's muscles. 

With his shoulders curved inward, Blair watched the floor, his mind counting the speckled tiles even as he tried desperately to focus on what had just happened. He couldn't believe it. He rubbed his face and told himself that he was just entering the denial stage. 

Jim noticed the slow movement of Blair's hands, and he felt the sympathy pull at his chest. Instinctively, he reached out and placed his hand on Blair's shoulders, his need for him growing stronger and stronger. The moment Jim touched the young anthropologist, Blair jerked away from him. The detective tried not to sigh out loud, but he crossed his arms over his chest to keep his hands away from Blair. Both men remained in this stance until they reached Forensics. Jim opened the door for them, and Dan looked up, squinting slightly behind his thick glasses. The forensics agent snapped off a bloody pair of gloves and reached for new ones. 

"What have you got for us?" Jim asked. 

"Always what I can do for you," Dan replied, "and never what you can do for me. Blair, how are you?" 

"I'm fine," he answered softly. 

Dan smiled slightly at his polite lie. "You sure you're up to this?" 

"I guess." 

Jim interrupted. "You said you found something?" 

"Over here." Dan moved around to the last gurney, and as they followed him, Blair couldn't help but gape at the four cloth-covered cots. Underneath the white sheet, he could clearly see that there were no whole bodies \-- just parts. Dan pulled back the sheet, and Blair covered his mouth. His eyes were inextricably drawn to the cracked, burnt and bloody rib cage, a few pieces of vertebrae, and the scorched back portion of a human skull. 

Casually, Dan lifted the cranium and pointed to a clean hole in the back. "Look at this. Look at how perfect this hole is. Now, this is just supposition on my part, because, yes, an object could have been projected by the blast, but my gut tells me it wasn't. I think this man was shot in the back of the head before the blast went off. I've seen way too many bullet holes in my lifetime." He pointed to the table next to them. "I wish we could find the skull on this guy over here. They're still finding body parts at the scene. I might know for certain later." 

Blair's cracking voice interrupted them. "Which one's Bass?" 

"Who?" 

"Sebastian . . . Sebastian Sanders." 

Jim closed his eyes and his jaw tensed as he tried to reign back his emotions for his guide. 

"That's the main thing I wanted to show you." Dan moved to the first gurney. "Look at this." He pulled back the sheet slightly, and Blair instantly recoiled. Only the arms were there. "Here." Dan pointed to the hand. Small parts of it were burned, and Blair began to grow faint as he recognized the tight black hairs singed on the reddened skin. "Notice this." With a metal probe, he lifted a small strand of scorched yellow plastic rope still tied around the wrist. "I'd say this man was tied up. And judging by the state of the body and by how we found these pieces so far apart from each other, I'd say he was practically lying on top of the bomb when it went off. We found this, too." Dan pulled back the sheet even further, and Blair twisted around, squeezing his hand on his mouth even harder. "Blair, you okay?" 

The academic nodded, but he still didn't look around. 

"I know this is tough, Blair, but I need you to look at this. I need you to tell me if this is Sanders." 

Taking a deep breath, he turned. Lying on the table was a shank of flesh attached to a decapitated neck, the one clavicle and shoulder blade gleaming white beneath the burnt muscle. Dan pointed to the neck. "Is this one of his?" he asked. 

The black image of a spider tattoo was clearly evident under the red and blistered skin. Dan picked up a plastic bag and opened it, revealing a tattered turtleneck. It was the same color as the one Sebastian was last seen wearing. "I found this attached to part of his body. The shirt is soaked in blood, and there's another residue. I'm pretty sure it's tattoo ink but I won't know for sure until I get additional lab results from Seattle." 

Blair moaned and dashed from the room. Jim started to go after him, but stopped. "Dan, how sure are you that these bodies belong to Didion and Bass?" 

"Well, I'm pretty sure about Sanders, now," he said, pointing to the door that Blair had just bolted through. "Now there's Sachs to consider." Dan motioned to one of the other tables. "I pulled a slug from the chest of this body -- the one I think is Sachs'. Blood type matches. It looks like a .38, but I won't know for sure until the lab tests come back. I'm having them matched against the two we took from Sachs' chair. But as for an exact identification, well, I can't say for absolute. Size matches. Blood type matches. Hair matches. I'd say ten to one it's him. I won't know for certain until I do a DNA test." 

"When will you get that back?" 

"Not anytime soon. Can't find any DNA to run it up against. I've made the necessary requests to get copies of Sachs' medical records, but I'm not expecting any miracles." 

Jim rolled his head back. "Jesus Christ, I still don't have a body." 

Dan drew the sheet over Sebastian's body parts. "Oh, you have bodies all right. Four of them. And they are very, very real." 

* * *

Blair collapsed in a chair down the hallway not far from Forensics. Already his lungs were heaving as he dropped his head into his hands. It was now nine o'clock. He hadn't slept in over thirty-six hours, and his exhausted body refused to remain quiet any longer. Sobbing fell from his mouth no matter how hard he tried to control it with his hands. He closed his eyes to squeeze back the tears and when he did, images of Sebastian coursed through him -- of him alive, of his flashing smile and his sharp goatee, of his tell-tale turtlenecks, of his warm hands on Blair's flesh that night, followed by the grotesque images of that gnarled, flesh-stripped, bony hand tied at the wrist with melted yellow rope and that shredded piece of meat that once was part of the upper torso he had kissed -- all mixing with nightmare visions of Sebastian's final moments, his arms tied behind him, draped around the bomb like a lover, with two dead agents lying next to him as he counted down the final seconds before the explosion took his life. Considering how connected he felt to Sebastian after that night when they both slipped into a mystical trance, Blair couldn't stop thinking that this image, so detailed in his imagination, had to be the real scene evoked. And as his crying choked his lungs, Blair's confidence that this was Sebastian's final moments grew into certainty, and that made him cry even harder. 

Suddenly he felt his weight being yanked from the chair as Jim grabbed Blair's upper arms and lifted him, pulling him into a strong embrace. "I've got you, Blair. Just let it out. I won't let go this time. I promise." In his exhaustion and pain, Blair instantly clutched his arms around Jim, pressing his face into Jim's chest as the sobbing wracked his body. Feeling the heat of his former lover, and those strong, muscled arms holding him, Blair melted against him -- his sentinel, the man he once had loved so fiercely it scared him. He felt the heartbeat against his chest that had rocked him to sleep for so many nights. Jim's open hands stroked his back, easing the pain. Gently, the detective pressed his lips into Blair's hair, kissing his forehead, and he as he whispered, his moving lips sent shivers down Blair's spine. "You're so tired, baby. Please. Please, let me take you home. Please. Our home. Let me put you back in our bed, where you belong." 

The fire that immediately burst in Blair's chest startled him before he really felt the rage that went with it. The image of Jim standing at the doorway to the safehouse, so angry, so judgmental, as he watched Sebastian being taken away to his death, shook him from his emotional breakdown and threw up all the city walls he had built around himself. Then the anger that had been boiling all day, about what Collin had said, that Didion had played Jim for a fool, had threatened him so easily into tossing Blair aside. And then that he had taken to Lee Whitmore so quickly, whose tough, muscular, ex-military persona had so crushed his own sense of self-esteem. Clutching Jim's shirt in his fist, Blair pushed his way out of Jim's embrace. Without saying a word, he turned quickly, wiping the sleeves of his sweater across his eyes as he walked away. 

Watching him go, Jim could only stand in shock with his hands still spread open. Slowly, he closed his eyes tight and brought his arms across his chest, feeling the rejection in his bones. 

"Come on." Jim heard Blair growl as he punched the elevator button again and again. "Come on." He started to pace, unable to look at Jim. 

Taking a deep breath, Jim thought, /You're worth fighting for./ Slowly he came forward. 

In that instant, the stairway door adjacent to the elevators burst open. Jim closed his eyes. /Of all the fucking men in the universe./ 

Blair's eyes shot open in surprise, and his jaw jutted forward in rage as he recognized the tall, muscular blond. Agent Whitmore tossed him a dismissive glance as he peered down the hall for Jim. "Jimmy! I've been looking for you all day." 

The elevator door opened and Blair stepped inside. 

"Blair, wait!" Jim called out, closing the distance between them quickly. But Lee blocked him, his hands on Jim's chest. Over Lee's shoulders, Jim could see Blair's pained eyes watching them as the elevator doors shut. 

"Jimmy, listen to me." 

Jim shoved him roughly. "I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again!" Then he waved his hand, not wanting to even speak to him. /Got to catch Blair./ 

"This is important!" 

"No it's not, Lee. Nothing about you is important." Jim moved around him and raced for the door to the stairs. 

"But I know something about Didion Sachs!" he shouted. 

Jim almost laughed, and he paused outside the opened door to the stairway and said, "I already know a hell of a lot more about Didion Sachs than you ever will." Then he ran up the stairs, two steps at a time, to try to catch up with Blair. He dashed into the bullpen, then halted when he realized that Blair's coat and backpack were missing. 

* * *

Blair stood outside the door to his apartment, not wanting to go inside. For the past few hours -- he couldn't tell -- he had been driving around Cascade, trying to clear his head, trying to stop crying. He knew Collin was inside and he just wasn't sure what he should feel about him. Shaking his head, he couldn't believe that all this time Collin knew what was going on but chose not to say anything. Collin was his best friend, after all. Even so, considering that Sebastian had a much more active role in trying to divide Blair from Jim, he knew from their mystical union together that Sebastian had genuine affection for him. /Could that kind of bond be faked?/ he asked himself. /And can I really be angry at Collin and not at Bass?/ 

He didn't know. But he did know that his body was so tired that his bones hurt. And that Jim would be back tomorrow morning to start the investigation again. Turning the key in the lock, Blair decided to just play each minute with Collin by ear. If he could forgive Sebastian for being coerced by Didion, then surely he could do the same with Collin. 

When he walked in, the only person he saw in the apartment was Ian Yoshito, standing in the kitchen. Neither man spoke. Blair pulled off his jacket and draped it over the top of the sofa while Ian went back to filling up the kettle with water and placing it on the burner. Slowly, Blair stepped into the small kitchen and placed his hand on the small of Ian's back. The handsome Japanese doctor sighed, then turned slightly. Up close, Blair could see the dark rings under his eyes. "One hell of a day," he said in his formal Oxford accent. 

Blair could only shake his head. 

"Do you want some tea?" 

"Yes." 

Ian reached into the cabinet above the sink and found another mug. "Jim's been calling for you." 

Blair ignored the message. "Where's Collin?" 

"He's in his bedroom." 

"How is he?" 

Ian placed both hands on the counter in front of him and frowned. "I don't know. He's not talking much. A little while ago, your captain . . . is his last name Banks?" 

"Simon?" 

"Tall black man. The one who came to arrest me that time. We were in his office this morning." 

"That's Simon." 

"He dropped in a moment ago and told Collin that Sebastian's remains had been identified. By you." 

Blair closed his eyes, trying to block the image. "Simon came here?" 

"Yes. I almost expected Jim or you to tell him." 

Blair shook his head. /So Jim didn't come with Simon. I guess that means he's still mad at Collin, too./ 

"Collin said you were angry at him." 

"I'm not . . ." Blair couldn't finish the sentence. 

"He told me why." Then he sighed. "I don't know what to think any more, either. All these bloody secrets. This is all such a shock." 

Blair found himself leaning towards the taller man, and Ian easily held him close. "Oh, Blair." His chest aching, Blair squeezed his eyes tight as his arms slipped around Ian's waist, feeling his comfortable body heat spreading through him, relaxing his muscles. His mind flashed memories of carefree, intimate nights with this man, holding him -- so romantic and caring and sensuous. He felt Ian's strong hands stroking his back, sliding from the top of his head, across his long, curly hair and past his shoulder blades. Inside, his chest throbbed from the comfort and need. When he realized Ian was gently rocking him back and forth, the emotions welled up and he clutched Ian tighter. 

Looking up at Ian, at his dark, almond-shaped eyes, strong cheekbones, and that thick shock of black hair that stubbornly curled over his brown eyes in a soft wave, Blair couldn't stop himself as he found his jaw reaching closer. Ian noticed it, too -- the look in Blair's blue eyes, so lost, desperate, tired -- and he remembered how much he had loved him. Their lips pressed together, and when both of them experienced the familiar and comfortable sensations of a moist, soft kiss, their mouths opened for something deeper and more passionate. Ian's hands clasped the back of Blair's head as the young anthropologist pulled Ian tighter. Both recalled the heat and passion of their nights together. 

But when Blair suddenly realized what he was doing, he pushed the doctor away. "Ian . . . Jeez, I'm so sorry." 

Ian leaned against the counter, dazed by his own reaction. "Blair . . . I . . ." 

The whistle of the tea kettle interrupted their awkward moment. Blair could only stand there in shock. Ian turned sharply and grabbed the kettle from the burner, pouring the hot water into the two mugs. With skillful hands, he spooned loose tea leaves into the mesh strainers and dropped both of them into the water to steep. Finally, with his back to Blair, Ian whispered, "Blair?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I wonder if things would have been different . . . if I had just fought a little harder to win you." 

Blair sighed, and he couldn't resist slipping his arms around Ian's waist again, his face pressed between the doctor's shoulder blades. "Ian, I love you. I love you as much as I did then. But things are happening for a reason, I guess. Right now, let's not think about this. We've got way too much to deal with without having to throw you and me into the mix again." 

"I know. I know. And I love Collin. I really do. But right now . . . I just don't know who Collin is." 

"I know. I'm the same way. With just about everybody." Blair patted him on the shoulder. "And we so don't need Collin finding us like this." 

"Collin's asleep. I gave him a sleeping pill a little while ago. Which reminds me." He turned and reached for a plastic bottle of pills near the sink. "I picked these up this afternoon for Collin. You need to take one, too." 

"What is it?" 

"It's just a sleeping pill." 

"Oh, I don't think so." 

"Blair, I'm a doctor. And your friend. I wouldn't prescribe this if you didn't need it." 

"This is prescription?" 

"Yes." When Blair refused to take the pill, Ian insisted. "Blair, you're exhausted. I'm telling you you need this. You need some sleep, and you're so tired you won't get it. Please." 

"Trust me, Ian, these days sleep has not been my friend. If it's not dreams of being eaten alive by black dogs, then it's dreams of Jim rejecting me in new and more creatively cruel ways." 

"I know you, Blair. You're so tired that you're going to have a difficult time falling to sleep." Blair reached for a second plastic bottle on the microwave. "I know. I'll just take a double dose of valerian and let that put me to sleep. You should know me well enough to know I hate how sleeping pills make me feel." 

* * *

[Continued in section two](timedoes_a.html).

Link to text version of section two: http://www.squidge.org/archive/cgi-bin/convert.cgi?filename=drama6/timedoes_a.html 


	2. Chapter 2

This story has been split into three sections for easier loading.

## Time Does Not Bring Relief, Part III

by Kadru

Author's webpage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Author's notes and disclaimer in part one. 

* * *

Time Does Not Bring Relief, Part III - section two 

Jim shut the door of the loft behind him, for the first time since he had received that phone call from Simon. He stood there for a moment, reflecting on that call. Simon had told him so little. The call had lasted only seconds. A small scratch of time -- yet it had changed everything in his world, like a tear in the fabric of life. It had ripped back all the pastel illusions to reveal the rot and deception underneath. The last time he had stood here, at this very door, with his back against the metal poster, he had believed in his heart that someone was out there \-- some dangerous shadowy force -- who wanted to kill Blair for being gay. And in that time between closing this door once and closing it again, Didion was dead, his body missing, only to be left heaped on the floor next to Sebastian before the explosion viciously splintered both their bodies. Jim closed his eyes. Despite being so angry, despite having no control, his heart ached when he imagined Sebastian with his hands tied behind him, draped over an explosive ticking beneath him. /What went through your mind? For all that you did to me, you were still just a man. No one deserved that. Could you see Didion's body, shot, cold, stiff, lying there next to you? Were you . . . were you able to touch him, finally? Are you . . . are you . . . _with_ him?/ 

He shook the morose thought from his mind and moved into the kitchen. He was so tired after working two straight days without sleep. As he leaned against the refrigerator door, staring at the beer in the side shelf, he thought back to that scene -- Sebastian's last vision of life. /I didn't hate him, Blair./ 

/Are you so sure?/ 

Jim shut the refrigerator without taking a beer. Slowly, he made his way to the sofa without once turning on a light. For weeks now, he hadn't turned on the lights -- not really needing to, with his heightened vision. Living in darkness without his guide. He fell into the sofa, letting the exhaustion flow through his muscles. /I didn't hate Bass . . . not then anyway./ 

/Even after he slept with Blair?/ 

/No, even after he slept with Blair. Blair deserved that, I guess. I slept with Lee./ 

Jim sighed. /Damn, why did I do that?/ He wiped his face with his right hand. /You fucked up, Jim. Just like you fucked up with Tom. At least this time, Blair didn't run off to the jungles to get himself killed./ 

/No, he said he stuck around, waiting for me to take him back./ 

/Well, now he doesn't want you back, because you went and fucked Lee./ 

Jim rolled his head back in frustration. He tried to put things in perspective, hoping to understand his guide. In the past two years, Blair had fallen in love with Jack McClairy, an Australian anthropologist, who some angry ex-con had confused for Jim and killed in cold blood. Jim was there for Blair, waiting for him to heal. And after he had healed, Blair didn't immediately turn to Jim. Instead, he turned to Ian. /The doctor./ But somehow, he had won Blair. And they had been happy for over six months. Six happy months. Until September. 

He could no longer sit there. Jim anxiously stepped away from the sofa to stand in front of the balcony windows with his arms crossed over his chest. /All this time, it was Didion./ 

Jim shook his head in the dark. /Blair's right. It doesn't matter that it was Didion or Rafe or Simon or Lee Brackett for god's sake. I was the one who kicked him out. _I_ did it. And I slept with Lee. Fuck!/ 

Leaning his forehead against the cold windowpane, Jim sighed. /And look at me. I'm a worn out cop. I'm no Australian anthropologist. I'm no rich doctor. I'm not someone as smart as Bass. I'm just a cop -- a moody, jealous, overbearing cop. No wonder Blair doesn't want me back. What the hell do I have to offer him? Especially after what I've done./ 

Slowly, Jim turned to face the stairs. He knew he needed to get some sleep. As he climbed the steps to his bedroom, he unbuttoned his flannel shirt. Once up the stairs, he folded his shirt and dropped it in the laundry basket. He undressed mechanically, letting the motions replace thoughts in his mind, letting his brain fall into methodical silence. 

* * *

From the high, crowded branches, Blair could hear the raucous call of parrots screeching. The flap of their neon blue wings sounded too close to his head, and he ducked, only to see them flying high in the canopy. An odd sunlight dappled the jungle floor, coming from all directions. The air about him shimmered with a greenish-yellow haze, while the tree trunks and hand-shaped leaves had a bluish cast. Blair took a few steps, slowly spinning around to get his bearings. The air felt cold, not hot like he expected. 

Through the bone-white trunks of the monstrous trees, Blair could see what looked like water. He brushed aside the palms in his way, approaching the gleam of reflected water. Once he was close enough, he could see the narrow river. No current disturbed its surface. No fish swirled under its mirror. Blair drew in his breath, and the heavy, omnipresent scent of murky water filled his lungs. Kneeling down, he fingered the soil, feeling the dampness and grit. 

A lonely howl caught his attention. Looking up, he saw the figure standing on the opposite shore. Sebastian. His skin seemed ghostly pale. His stare drilled into Blair so hard that the startled academic couldn't move. 

Then, like a fish descending into the depths, Sebastian slipped back into the undergrowth, the leaves drawing back, only to fall into place and obscure his face. For a few moments, Blair remained there, looking into the jungle, hoping to see his friend again. 

Suddenly, like the rattle of rapid gunfire, a chain of angry barks reached his ears. Hampered by fear, Blair slowly raised his body, unsure where the barking came from. His eyes focused on the space where Sebastian was standing. With a burst of leaves, the undergrowth parted and a massive dog leapt onto the sandy shore, baring his teeth and growling. 

In a panic, Blair twisted on his feet and bolted away from the waterline before the dog began to swim. He took two steps before the curl of an exposed root snagged his foot. Blair fell face first into the mulchy soil. 

He gasped and felt the cover of his sheets tangling around his legs and his face pressing against the cotton pillow. Blair sat up in bed, recognized the moonlit darkness of his room, and sighed. "Bass." 

* * *

Blair stumbled out of his bedroom. He had hit the snooze bar on his alarm several times that morning until he realized that he had little time left to get ready for Jim. But he was still exhausted, and he could have slept all morning. Walking down the hallway, he began to turn to the left to the kitchen when he saw Collin lying on the sofa, looking up at him. Taking a deep breath, Blair realized that he needed to talk to his friend and roommate, and that waiting would just do them both more harm. 

"So, how are you?" Blair asked. 

"Right now, I don't know if I'm the good twin or the evil one." 

Blair smiled slightly. Not bothering with the kitchen and its seductive coffee-call, he moved slowly around the side of the sofa and sat down. "I'm sorry, Collin." 

"You? I'm the one who needs to beg for forgiveness." 

"I meant for Bass." 

Collin closed his eyes and rested his head against the sofa's back cushions. "He's dead, Blair," he said in a disbelieving voice that tugged at Blair's heart. "He was my cousin. He was my best friend. We did everything together. I . . . I can't believe this has happened." 

Blair placed his hand on Collin's knee, not sure what else to say. 

"Captain Banks said you were the one who identified him." 

"Yes." 

"What was it . . ." Collin suddenly shook his head, his hands trembling. "Never mind, I don't want to know." 

Blair let his eyes drift into space as he could no longer hold back the remembrance of blasted flesh. "It was the worst thing I had ever seen." 

Collin swallowed before he spoke. "He said Didion's body was there, too." 

Blair only nodded. 

"Good," Collin said, his voice hard-edged. "That's at least some relief." 

"Have you told Miriam?" 

"Ian called her last night for me." 

"What did she say? Do you know?" 

"I thought she would call this morning." 

"Collin, I'm sorry for being so angry yesterday." 

"Don't. You had a right to be. You still do." 

"I'm only beginning to understand what you've been going through these past two years. With Didion." 

Collin's face relaxed slightly, almost smiling. "Thank you, Blair. I've been wanting someone to say that for a long time. Maybe I'm not so crazy after all." 

Blair reached for Collin's hand, and he held it for a few moments when suddenly there was a sharp rap at the door. Lifting himself from the sofa, Blair made his way to the door, peering through the peek hole. "It's Jim." 

Collin's stomach tightened. When the door was opened, Jim looked at Blair still in his boxers. "I thought you'd be ready," he said. 

"I just woke up. You can wait for me if you want." 

Jim noticed Collin on the sofa, and he frowned. "I'll wait for you in the truck." 

"Suit yourself." Blair shut the door on him before he heard an answer. 

* * *

Blair opened the door to Jim's truck and slid into the seat beside him. As Jim reached for the keys to start the motor, he asked, "Well?" 

"Well what?" 

Jim pulled his hand back without starting the truck. "Can we talk about it?" 

Blair closed his eyes and sighed. "About what, Jim?" he asked, trying to delay the inevitable. 

"About us." 

"Jim . . . not right now, okay?" 

"Why?" 

"Why? Because my friend is dead, Jim, that's why. And I want to get to the bottom of this." 

Jim nodded slightly. "Your friend?" 

"Yes, my friend." 

"Explain something to me, Chief," Jim began with an sharp edge to his voice. "How can two men walk into this town with the express purpose of dividing us apart, who work so hard to see that that happens, and now that I'm trying to overcome that, you insist on defending the men who are truly responsible but you won't even begin to think about defending me?" 

"For one, Jim, I seriously doubt that Didion or Bass talked you into sleeping with Lee Whitmore in what? Less than a month?! That so had nothing to do with Didion or Bass." 

"Oh, so I guess you just fucked Bass because it seemed like the thing to do at the time." 

"You've got that all wrong." 

"Have I? What I see here are two men who fucked around on each other \-- one who's willing to admit he's sorry and that he made a mistake. And the other who's hell-bent on avenging a murder." Jim stared at him hard. "Maybe I'm the one who's making the mistake." 

"Don't you dare." Blair growled. "What happened between Bass and me was different." 

"Oh, I see. It was _different_." Jim said ironically as he started the motor in the truck. 

"It was, Jim. Bass and I were working through a spiritual trance state, one in which we joined spiritually. It . . . just so happens . . . that some of that manifested itself physically." 

Jim smiled falsely and added again, "I see." 

"The point _I_ am trying to make here, is that I know from that night what Bass felt about a lot of things. And one of those things is that he truly saw me as his friend, and that he would have -- and that he was -- trying everything he could do to keep us from getting hurt. And that's the real issue here, Jim. There is something else going on here. Something much bigger than two men trying to break us up. And I think it's even bigger than the Project. I mean, what would make two men who genuinely like us to do this to us? Huh? That's the issue here, and that's why I want to find this, and end it." 

"Promise me something, Chief," he said quickly after Blair had stopped, as if he wasn't listening but only waiting for Blair's eventual silence. 

Again he sighed. "What Jim?" 

In his saddest voice, he said, "Promise me that you'll trust I love you as much as Bass did, and that I would do anything I can not to hurt you again. . . . One day . . . I want you to fight as hard for me as you are for Bass." 

Blair literally gasped from the chill in his lungs. With his hands raised in surrender, he nodded awkwardly before looking out the window to regain his composure. Finally, he said, "Where do we start?" Trying to keep Jim from misinterpreting him, he added, "With the case?" 

"I went into the station this morning. The bullet they pulled from one of the bodies was definitely a 38, and it matches the two found in Didion's chair." 

"So it was Didion, then?" 

Jim shrugged his shoulders. 

"You don't think it was, do you?" 

"I don't know what to think anymore." He looked hard at Blair. "Seems like every time I think something is one way, I found out it's the other. What's the point any more?" 

Blair studied the dark hair curling on his fingers for a moment. "The other body. It was definitely Bass." 

His sad voice affected Jim, and the detective clenched his jaw. More and more he was coming to realize that Blair's feelings for Sebastian were stronger than he expected. "How do you know?" 

"The tattoo, for one. I doubt seriously that two people with the exact same tattoo and the exact same body can be in Sebastian's house at the exact same time." 

Jim nodded. He had to agree that Blair's logic was right. Sebastian was dead. But he just didn't trust Didion. Hell, even his own senses didn't work anymore -- everything seemed to be happening in dream-time. After all, Didion had revealed himself to be the devil in the span of two days, and devils had a way of accomplishing the most evil things. In his imagination, he could picture Didion faking his death and killing his lover in cold blood just to make sure he pulled it off. 

"So . . . where are we going?" 

Blair's voice distracted Jim from his thoughts. "They ran a trace on the car we found a few miles from Didion's. The one that exploded. I have the owner's name and address." He pulled the sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Blair. The young academic scanned the report for the name -- Phillip Harrison. He flipped to the second page. 

"Jim, this man's an Army Ranger." 

"Yeah. I know." 

* * *

Miriam sipped at her black coffee, not really wanting any of it but bored and needing something to do. Anything to take her mind off the news about Sebastian, news that left her numb with shock. Her brain couldn't even form words to describe it. Instead, images of them in college, on unbearably hot southern summer nights, surrounded by the deafening buzz of cicadas, as the three of them tried to find some relief under the shade of wide magnolias and moss-draped oaks. 

With her eyes closed, she forced the visions from her jumbled mind and returned to reality. She had been sitting with the Salvadoran delegation members for over an hour that morning in their expansive suite. They had set up an office in the massive main room, and several laptops hummed on the large conference table. Every so often she would glance at the laptop in front of her to read the emails, filing them in each minister's personal folder. If one came in English, she would quickly scan the document and type a short summary of its contents before sending it on. /I don't know why I even bother -- they all speak English. And for this I spent years researching a book on Leopoldo Lugones? A _predictable one_./ She wanted to groan but thought better of it. As it was, most of the delegation only tolerated her, unhappy that she was an American. 

/And speaking of tolerate,/ she thought as she glanced over at Beverly Cordova. The principle translator sat at the head of the table, leaning back in a plush chair with her stately legs crossed, reading report after report. Every so often her dark eyes would spot one of the other delegates, as if she monitored them. She even observed the Latin hotel servant \-- a young man with a groomed mustache and ink-black hair -- who entered the room pushing a white linen wrapped cart of breakfast danishes, fruit and coffee. The strange woman seemed to register everything in the room, her eyes checking objects off like a list. 

Miriam had already noticed that something was wrong with this scenario, and focusing on it helped her forget about Sebastian. /She never translates./ The suit Beverly wore was of expensive wool -- off white -- with a bright white silk blouse dressed with a pearl choker. Her ruby ring glinted in the fluorescent light. The other delegates seemed to defer to Cordova, as if they needed her permission -- even the Salvadoran deputy minister of finance, the highest ranking diplomat of the group. Miriam watched as the older man -- tall, thin, aristocratic -- leaned down to whisper something to her. Brushing her ringed fingers through her curly hair, Miriam uncovered her right ear, hoping to eavesdrop. 

Before Miriam could make out any of the words, Cordova gracefully rose from her seat and left the room, moving into one of the side bedrooms to Miriam's left. The deputy finance minister, Raul Velarde stood at the side of the long table, not far from Miriam, and his hawk-shaped eyes never left the servant. 

When the annoying ding of the email program reached Miriam's ears, she couldn't resist a bored sigh. With her elbow on the table, she plopped her chin in her hand and maneuvered the mouse. /Oooo, what could this one be about?/ she thought with an ironic tone. /The price of fucking cocoa?/ 

The sudden rustle of cloth and the unmistakeable gasps from the other delegates sounded too surreal to her at first. Lifting her eyes slightly to peer over the edge of the laptop, she had a hard time believing what she saw. The young Latin servant had pushed the cart aside, knocking the tray of fruit to the carpet. He reached under the cart and pulled out a revolver, pointing it straight at the deputy minister. 

"General Velarde," he whispered in Spanish. "You betrayed us. You forgot us, your soldiers, your workers, your farmers, and for what? Thirty pieces of silver? We were your children . . . we would have followed you into the mouth of hell." Still aiming the gun into the minister's chest, the young man saw Cordova enter the room. "Stand back," he commanded. "I don't want to hurt you. I just want the general." 

Miriam's heart pounded in her chest, and she was too afraid to breathe. Even so, she couldn't take her eyes off Beverly. The other woman had no fear in her, and Miriam watched as her eyes glazed slightly, and her body relaxed. Then her eyes snapped slightly, almost mechanically. What happened next, Miriam couldn't understand. With a speed that Miriam did not think possible, Beverly reached into her jacket and pulled out a strangely shaped gun with a long silencer. Cordova didn't even seem to aim. 

Miriam heard the slight puff of the gun, then the servant's hand jerked. His gun flew in an arc across the room, and he shouted in pain, reaching for his right hand. He fell against the cart, and Miriam realized that liquid red spurted from his hand across his white uniform and face. 

Then she saw the object on the table not far from her. 

A small, crooked finger, shot off by Cordova's bullet. Miriam leapt back from the table, knocking the chair back against the floor and turning pale. 

Calmly, Cordova crossed the room to stand in front of the servant, her gun at her side. 

The servant turned hitman stared up at her, shaking in pain. Suddenly the expression in his eyes changed -- afraid, knowing. "L'Orden," he whispered. 

Cordova smiled at him. 

"You ogres." 

Cordova's smile disappeared. With the same flash of movement, she raised her gun and fired one shot into his brain. The failed hitman slumped against the cart, his eyes still open wide. Without flinching, Cordova reached into her jacket again for a small cell phone. Dialing a number quickly, she began speaking in a language Miriam didn't recognize -- almost Asiatic. 

Before she could piece together what had just happened, Deputy-Minister Velarde quickly shifted around the table and grabbed Miriam by the arm. "Come with me," he commanded, and Miriam was in too much shock to argue as he guided her into the bedroom on the right. He forced her to sit on the bed before he reached for a crystal carafe of bourbon. After pouring some in a tumbler, he pushed it into her quivering hands. "Drink this." 

"But I --" 

"Do it," he almost shouted. 

Mesmerized by his authority, she took a swallow from the tumbler, drinking only a third of it before she began to cough. 

"Finish it." 

"No." 

"I said, finish it." This time his voice was deadly. 

Miriam downed the bourbon, wiping her mouth afterwards. 

"There. That will calm your nerves," the minister said in a gentler tone. "No one was hurt." 

"Hurt? What the fuck are you talking about. She just shot him." 

Quickly the minister sat down on the bed beside her, holding her hand. "You will never speak of what happened here if you value your life and the lives of people who matter to you. Do you understand?" 

"No, I don't fucking understand. Who the hell are you people?" 

"I was once a leftist general. That man was one of my soldiers. He should have known I would have recognized him." 

"But Cordova --" 

"Step aside, Velarde." 

Both of them looked up immediately to see Cordova standing in the doorway, her gun still in her hand. Without a second thought, Velarde darted away from Miriam, leaving her alone on the bed. Slowly, Cordova advanced. "What you saw here didn't happen." 

"Who the hell are you?" 

Cordova raised her pistol, holding it only an inch from Miriam's forehead. She could still feel the heat radiating from the barrel. "I am Beverly Cordova, the primary translator for the El Salvadoran delegation to the Latin American Economic Conference. Is that understood?" 

Miriam only nodded. 

"Good." With the gun still pointed at Miriam, Beverly added, "For a centuries now, we have known that individuals have a startling need to transform themselves into martyrs. I'm sure you're much the same as all the others. So when I tell you I will personally kill you if you make any mention of what just happened here to another human being, animal, potted plant or machine, I am being very serious. But just to make sure you know that I mean it when I say this incident will not leave this room, let me remind you of your dear, lonely mother." 

Miriam's eyes grew wide. 

"She lives on 1825 Tyler Avenue, Apartment 416, alone, with three cats \-- an old Siamese, a fat Persian, and some mangy stray she picked up last year." 

Miriam couldn't breathe. 

"And just a few minutes ago, her old Siamese went missing." The gun remained pointed at Miriam's forehead. "Do you understand me, Miriam Frohmeir?" 

She whispered, "You fucking bitch." 

Instantly, the hammer of the gun clicked into place, and Miriam felt something inside her lower abdomen twitch as her body betrayed her fear. 

"Do you want to see your mother dead today, Miriam Frohmeir?" 

"No." 

The gun moved away. "Good. Make sure it stays that way. I can make that happen in the time it takes you to suck in your last breath." 

* * *

Both Jim and Blair approached the third story apartment listed on the mysterious red Mustang's registration. Blair couldn't believe how anxious he was feeling, and he tried to cover his fear by stuffing his hands into his jean pockets. He knew the man behind the door had to be another sentinel, another mass-produced factory product, another Didion, another genetically altered assassin sent here to accomplish god only knew what. How many times had he followed Jim into the spray of bullets and not felt fear? But this time, coming closer and closer to the apartment door with its glossy green paint and white numbers, Blair felt his stomach cramping. /This is not good. This is not good. This is so not good./ 

Jim, on the other hand, seemed numb to the significance. Only his clenched jaw gave away his tension, and when he raised his hand to knock on the door, his fingers were already squeezed into a tight fist. 

Blair waited what felt like forever, staring at the door, until finally it opened. 

The guide's eyes grew wide, and Jim had a hard time not doing the same. 

The young man who answered -- very muscular, broad shoulders, narrow waist -- with round saucer brown eyes, dimpled chin, boyish face, buzz-cut hair -- was pock-marked with brownish-red scratches and dark blue bruises across his face and hands. 

"Yes?" he asked. 

Jim pulled out his badge. "I'm Detective Jim Ellison, and this is my associate, Blair Sandburg." 

"Is this about my car?" 

Jim turned quickly to look at Blair, almost taken aback. 

Phillip didn't give them a chance to ask another question. "Have you found it?" 

"Are you Phillip Harrison?" 

"Yes." 

"Lieutenant Phillip Harrison?" 

At the word, lieutenant, Phillip's eyes narrowed slightly. His tone of voice came back more reserved. "Yes." 

"We discovered your car less than a mile from yesterday's bombing." 

"Bombing?" 

"Surely you heard about it on the news." 

"I don't watch the news." Phillip's voice grew even colder. 

Jim changed his tactic. "What happened to your face?" 

And like ice, Phillip answered, "I got hit. No where's my car?" 

"Where was your car yesterday?" 

"Are you an idiot? Or do you just pretend to be this stupid?" 

Jim sucked in a deep breath, his chest expanding in anger. Blair placed his hand on Jim's elbow and warned, "Jim," in his best guide voice. 

At the sound of Blair's voice, Phillip felt something in his spine tingle. "Who are you again?" he asked. 

"I'm Blair Sandburg." 

Phillip couldn't resist talking to him. "Have you found my car?" 

Jim noticed something in Phillip's heartbeat change around Blair, and he decided to remain quiet and observe the interaction. 

"There may be some confusion," Blair began. "Did you report your car stolen?" 

"Well, yes. Isn't that why you're here?" "No, we're investigating the explosion yesterday. Your car was found not far from B--" he started to say "Bass's house," but held himself back. "From the explosion site." 

"And?" 

Jealousy sparked in the detective. Jim had seen enough, and he quickly interrupted. "We found it on the side of the road in a twisted heap." 

"What are you talking about?" Phillip didn't take his eyes off Blair. 

Jim stepped in front of him, blocking Phillip's sight. "When I ran a background check on your vehicle this morning, there was no mention of it being reported stolen." 

"I just reported it this morning." 

"Why did you wait so long?" 

Phillip shrugged his shoulders. "I thought maybe one of the neighbors had taken it for a joyride. I figured I'd wait until they brought it back and then I'd kick their ass for it. Now what's this about my car being in a twisted heap?" 

"Your car was destroyed yesterday. Forensics thinks someone shot a bullet into your gas tank." 

"What?!" 

Unable to hold in his anger anymore, Jim burst. He slammed his hand against the door frame, so suddenly close to Phillip that their noses almost bumped together. "Cut the crap," he growled. "I know you're a sentinel. I saw you following Bass yesterday. Who the hell shot at you?" 

Phillip's eyes became slits and his voice snarled, too. "What the fuck are you talking about?" 

"You're a sentinel. Didion was a sentinel. I'm a sentinel. And I can hear your heart beating. It's mechanical. You're trying to hide the fact that you're lying but I don't buy it. I saw you follow Bass from the safehouse yesterday. Somebody shot at your car to keep you from protecting Bass and I want to know who that was." 

"And I'm telling you," Phillip didn't back down, "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." 

Both men stared at each other, noses still so close they almost touched. Finally Blair slid his hand between the two men and placed his palm on Jim's chest. "Jim. . . . Jim, back off, man." 

Jim pointed his finger in Phillip's face. "I know who you are." 

Phillip leaned in close. "Good." 

"I'm watching you." 

"Jim, back off," Blair said a little more forcefully. 

Slowly, Jim turned his back on Phillip to walk away, holding eye contact as long as he could. 

Blair watched Jim, and when he had stepped a few feet away, he turned to Phillip. "If you had anything to do with Bass's death, I will personally find a way to bring you down," he whispered. Both men eyed each other dangerously before Blair slipped away to return to Jim's side. 

* * *

Despite the noise in the bullpen from all the other detectives answering phones and shouting back and forth between each other, Jim sat motionless behind his desk, deep in thought and oblivious to the distractions. Last night, ruminating on Didion's death, he supposed there were other sentinels in the city, operating in the shadows. But after this morning, actually meeting one had unnerved him a little. Not to mention the obvious scars and scratches on his face and neck. /Harrison was there yesterday. He was there when Didion's house exploded. He knows something and he's not talking./ 

/Of course, he's not talking. He probably set the bomb./ 

/Or he got out before the bomb went off./ 

Jim rubbed his face with both hands. This case was turning into a nightmare of gray with no black and white edges anywhere. Something that Blair had said to him that morning, that there was a darker, more sinister force at work than just Didion and Sebastian, haunted him. He had witnessed Ian being so distraught about dealing with the Project that he had slit his wrists. Tom had kept it silent from him, and now he wondered if there was another reason why Tom had retreated into the sanctuary of the cloister, other than a need to experience his senses in a holy light. /Did the Project enlist him as an assassin at one point? Could he have torn two lovers apart, knowing that he had felt such pain in his past? Could he not do it, and is that the real reason he hid in St. Matthew's while the cancer overcame him?/ 

He shook his head. /No sense thinking these things now. Tom's dead. It doesn't matter anymore./ He needed to focus on the ones still left alive -- himself, Blair, Collin . . . Ian. Suddenly realizing Ian's tenuous relationship with the Project, Jim knew he needed to warn the doctor that he had found a third sentinel. 

As he reached for the phone, he noticed the red flashing light for his voice mailbox. /Dan?/ Jim quickly punched in his pass code and entered his voice mail. 

One message. 

He pressed 5 to play. 

"Jimmy, it's Lee. Please don't hang up on this or just delete it." 

Jim pulled his finger from the button which would have deleted the message, but he still rolled his eyes. "Listen, there's something going on between Didion, Bass, Collin--" Jim huffed a sigh but kept listening. "--and a woman named Miriam Frohmeir." 

Jim sat up in his chair. 

"I know you know Didion and Bass and Collin, but I didn't know if you knew Miriam Frohmeir or not. When all four of them were in Atlanta, the Olympic bomb went off. And now, all four of them are here in Cascade, and a bomb goes off. This is too much of a coincidence, but I can't get to the bottom of it because I'm being transferred tonight back to Atlanta. I think a cover-up is going down. I just thought I'd tell you about the guys and Frohmeir, and to be careful. She's staying at the Hilton, and she's working with the Salvadoran delegation for the summit. I tried to follow her the night Didion was killed, but I lost her. Anyway, I just wanted to help you out." Jim heard Lee take a deep breath on the message. "And . . . Jimmy, I'm sorry. For what happened. I . . . I don't quite know what happened, I mean, I thought you wanted it, too. I mean, you were the one who, sort of, started it, you know. . . . that night. . . . Anyway, I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I . . . kinda liked you, you know, and . . . oh well, never mind. I'm just embarrassing myself." The message ended. 

Staring down at the piece of paper on which he had written Miriam Frohmeir's name, Jim remained motionless. /The Salvadoran delegation?/ When Blair returned to his desk with a fresh cup of coffee and his textbook, Jim asked, "Hey, Sandburg, do you know someone named Miriam Frohmeir?" 

"Yeah. She's a friend of Bass and Collin. What's up?" 

"Let's go talk to her." 

"What for?" 

"Just call it a hunch." 

* * *

Standing alone in the elevator, Miriam knew that no one was watching, and that no one was around, but she still couldn't shake off the trapped feeling that surrounded her. For so many years, she had watched nature documentaries and made snide comments about terrified rabbits sitting stock still while the lynx or coyote or lion or whatever else materialized out of the darkness and just picked them up as casually as jeweled-fingered women at cocktail parties lifted hors-d'oeuvres off a plate. Now, her mental images weren't as pretty. The news of Didion's death unnerved her, but Sebastian's vicious killing stunned her. The shock ran so deep that although she had come close, she had yet to shed any tears -- and that numbness made her a little angry. Sebastian was one of her closest friends, and her body hadn't even started to mourn for him yet. 

Then she shivered as remembrance slipped in, of Beverly Cordova, lifting her gun so calmly and brutally slaughtering that man right in front of her. She crossed her hands over her chest and dropped her eyes to the floor, hoping to look small and insignificant. Deep down she suspected that Cordova wouldn't let her live much longer. At that thought, she wanted to cry. /Here I am, my best friend is dead, and the only time I feel like crying is . . . is because I'm about to die. I'm about to die. I'm about to die./ The elevator opened, and Miriam stepped out, moving around the other hotel guests as timidly as possible, afraid of touching or bumping or even being noticed. So unlike the way she had first stepped into the hotel, her long, curly, dark-red hair flashing from side to side and her face held up high and straight with bravado and pride. Like a panicked child trying to hide her desperation, Miriam veered quickly for the concierge's desk. 

She didn't hear the man's voice calling out her name. "Miriam! Hey, Miriam, wait up." 

When she realized her name had been called out, her heart jumped into her throat. Slowly, terrified, she turned around, her arms still crossed protectively around her chest. And when she recognized Blair rushing up to her, strangely she didn't feel any less threatened, especially when she noticed the muscular man following behind him with his stony scowl. 

"Blair. Hey, what's up?" Her fingers gripped her upper arms tightly, her knuckles paling from the force. 

Blair's voice came out soothing. "How are you?" 

For a few seconds, Miriam couldn't answer him, her entire focus bent on keeping her lips from trembling. Warily, she shot her eyes over at Jim. 

"Miriam, this is Jim Ellison." 

With narrow eyes that made Miriam feel like she was being scanned by a hostile machine, Jim peered at her as he reached into his jacket. "Cascade PD," he said firmly, flashing his badge. 

"Uhm . . . yes?" 

"I'd like to ask you a few questions about Didion Sachs, if I could." 

"Uhm . . . sure." 

Jim began to move slowly, to reach out to the left to direct her toward some chairs, when he noticed one of the hotel staff members approaching quickly. Miriam saw Jim being distracted, and she followed his line of vision. The concierge, in his formal suit, smiled gracefully as he came closer. "Ms Frohmeir?" 

"Yes?" 

"I'm afraid that no one has reported finding your handgun, ma'am, but we'll keep you informed." 

"Thank you." 

"Handgun?" Jim asked. 

The concierge merely nodded. 

"What kind of handgun?" 

Not answering him, the concierge only glanced at Miriam, then back at Jim. He continued to smile, but he wasn't going to discuss his guest's affairs. Rolling his eyes, Jim reached into his jacket pocket again, flashed his badge, and asked again, "What kind of handgun?" 

The concierge gave a small, apologetic smile to Miriam, who quickly cast her eyes to the ground. "A 38 caliber handgun, detective." 

Jim's eyebrows furrowed to a sharp point. "Thank you," he said, dismissing the concierge. "Could you step this way, please?" He pointed Miriam to a circle of chairs beneath a canopy of tall palms. 

Miriam nodded, then sat down, her arms still protecting her chest. 

"When did you first notice your gun was missing?" 

"Two . . . two nights ago." 

Jim quickly looked at Blair, and both men tried to hide their surprise. "When was the last time you saw it?" 

"I . . . I always kept the gun checked with the concierge, officer." 

"Did you ever check it back out?" 

"Well, yes, whenever I would drive by myself." 

"Where did you keep it then?" 

"In my glove compartment. I . . . I always kept the safety on it, and I know how to handle one. I've taken many, many gun safety courses." 

"I understand," Jim said, "but I'm more concerned about when you lost it. When did you last check it out from the concierge?" 

"Tuesday afternoon." 

"And where did you put it?" 

"In my glove compartment. I always kept it there." 

"Did you see anyone?" 

Suddenly Miriam turned to Blair, who had been silently sitting beside her, staring at his fingers. 

"Miriam?" Jim asked. 

"Collin," she answered softly. Then a few seconds later. "And Bass. And you . . . Blair." 

Blair took in a deep, unhappy breath, and Jim stared at his partner, his eyes only slightly showing his discomfort. 

"Explain to me exactly what happened," Jim's voice came out angrily. "Both of you." 

Miriam glanced over at Blair, and he simply nodded for her to go on. "I went to pick up Collin first. We were going to try and talk to Bass. Something was wrong and he was really scared about something." 

"What time?" Jim barked. 

"Early. About five." 

"Was Collin the only one who rode in your car?" 

"Uhm . . . yes . . . and no." 

"Well, which was it?" 

Miriam flinched under Jim's tone. "We met at some place called Stan's. Near the park. Blair suggested it. We all wanted to sit on the glassed-in patio overlooking the lake. I . . . I drove Blair back to his car." 

"Where was your car, Sandburg?" 

"At the university," he answered. 

"And how did you get there?" 

"I rode with Bass." 

"Who knew you kept your gun in your glove compartment?" he turned the question to Miriam. 

She thought for a moment. "Collin. And Didion and Bass. When I first stayed at their house, I said something about it." 

"Was there ever a time that someone had access to your car, when you weren't looking?" 

Miriam took a deep breath, but she didn't answer. 

"Well?" 

Finally, Blair spoke for her. "We all left the table by ourselves. Several times. To go to the bathroom. Get more beer. Anybody could have slipped out to her car then." 

"Are you saying Collin or Bass took my gun?" 

"Or Sandburg." Jim looked at his partner stoically. 

Blair couldn't look directly into Jim's eyes, and neither could Miriam. Jim, however, could hear both of their hearts racing. 

* * *

The Tube Steak hot dog sat on Jim's desk with only one bite taken out of it. Jim continued to stare at the hot dog, not hungry at all, but he knew he needed to eat something. He reached for it, took another bite, then placed it back in its cardboard tray. As he chewed slowly, his mind clicked along sluggishly. Two days ago, Didion had been shot. During all of this time, Blair had yet to tell him that he had seen Collin, Sebastian and Miriam just hours before Didion's death. Nor had he confessed to being in Didion's office that night. Jim knew he smelled his guide in the office, intermingled with the scent of cordite and blood, but at the time, his gut told him there had to be an explanation. Now, knowing that Blair hadn't mentioned his time that evening at Stan's, Jim began to waver in his convictions. /Blair kept that from me. What else is he hiding?/ 

He shook his head rapidly. /He's not hiding anything./ 

/But he is. And you know it./ 

/Blair wouldn't kill anyone./ 

/But he has./ 

Again he shook his head, arguing with his thoughts. /That was different. Blair was upset and he was angry and he was taking advantage of the situation./ 

/With Marshall Aigle, yes. Why not Didion? You already know something's going on between Blair and Bass./ 

Just thinking it caused his stomach to cramp. /When Blair lost Jack, it was almost a year before he could date again. Now, after me, he hasn't waited a month./ 

/ _You_ didn't wait a month./ 

Jim frowned hard with guilt. /I guess I deserved it./ Closing his eyes, Jim thought back to that afternoon when Didion had told Jim the news. Didion was so drunk, and it was obvious that the revelation had hurt the man severely. Jim understood, in a way he didn't like to admit. Didion did love Sebastian with a passion not unlike his love for Blair. He remembered how, tumbler after tumbler, Didion kept drinking, trying so hard to reach a point when the alcohol had numbed not only his senses but his soul. And Jim had tried that, too. He had matched Didion drink for drink, but Didion had had an advantage. He had given blood that day. 

/Wait./ 

/Didion gave blood that day./ 

He snatched up the phone and rang Dan in Forensics. "Dan, it's Jim. Listen, did you ever get the medical records for Didion Sachs?" 

"Yeah, just a minute." 

Jim taped his fingers on the desk, waiting for Dan to return to the phone. 

"Okay, I'm back." 

"Do you have it?" 

"Most of it." 

"What do you mean, most of it?" 

"They didn't send me a complete record." 

"Does it list if Didion Sachs used a blood bank?" With his hearing dialed up due to the excitement, Jim could hear Dan's fingertip sliding across the page. "Nope. Not here." 

"Damn!" 

"Must be on his personnel records." 

"His what?" 

"In case something happens to him at work. I've sometimes seen it listed there. Or there's a more complete record which the hospital is holding back -- for confidentiality reasons. In case the body belongs to someone else, they'll send just enough to ID or not ID." 

"Thanks, Dan." Instantly Jim sprang up from his chair, tossed the hot dog into the trash can with a sweep of his hand, then seized his leather coat from the hook near his desk. 

Blair, sitting with Rafe, talking with him about the shake-ups in this season's college football line-up, noticed all of Jim's activity and stop speaking in mid-sentence. "What's up?" 

"I just remembered something." 

"What?" 

"Didion gave blood." 

"So?" 

"So if we can find the blood, we can give that to Dan so he can identify the body by its DNA." Blair reached for his coat. "Jim, Bass gave blood, too. He said it was for a private bloodbank." 

"Did he tell you which one?" 

"No. Any ideas where to start?" 

"Cascade General. Didion was on their board of directors. Surely they have his personnel records on file, or maybe we can get a look at his complete medical records. That would tell us which blood bank he used." 

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Jim pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Blair shoved his hands in his pocket and waited while the detective reigned in his frustration. "Let's start this again," he said before opening his eyes to stare forebodingly at the middle-aged woman behind the desk, her eyeglasses reflecting the computer screen. "I'm Detective Jim Ellison of the Cascade PD." He held up the badge which he had already shown to her once before. "I'm here to see the medical records of Didion Sachs to use in a murder investigation." 

Although the records employee was answering in a meek tone of voice, she refused to let go of the information. "I'm sorry, detective. I can't let you see those. Medical records are confidential." 

"In a murder investigation, when we are attempting to identify a body, then a background warrant is produced for us to see the files. Our forensics department has already requested and received those files." 

"That's what I've been trying to tell you, sir. Those records have been delivered to your department." 

"But they were not the complete records. In Sachs records, there should be a reference to the blood bank he was using, but that information is not there." 

"I understand. That's what I'm trying to tell you. An abridged record with vital information is always turned over to the police so that an identification can be done, but the complete medical history is considered confidential unless a secondary warrant is filed." 

"Ma'am, do you have any idea how easily I could bring you in for obstruction of justice?" 

The woman began to tremble, but she still didn't back down. Blair reached for his partner's arm. "Jim, no. She's just doing her job, man. Let's wait until the administrator gets here." 

The woman relaxed slightly. "I paged her a few moments ago. She should be here soon." 

Jim threw up his hands and began to pace, trying his best to control his anger. Blair leaned against the counter. "So," he began in a friendly voice, pointing to a small photo taped to the computer screen, "is that your daughter?" 

"Yes, it is." 

"She's pretty. Is she still in school?" 

"This is her first year in college." 

"Oh really? Where?" 

"Duke." 

"Duke? Whoa! That's impressive." 

With his arms crossed, Jim stepped back from the two of them, listening to Blair befriend the records employee. They continued, back and forth, and Jim couldn't help feeling some resentment to how easily Blair did that, but he quickly shrugged it off. /Whatever gets the job done./ 

The squeak of the records room door distracted him, and he quickly straightened his spine when he recognized the sharply clipped blond hair and formal demeanor of the administrator, Dr. Melissa Simons. He had met her before, once at an affair the mayor had hosted, and again at Ian's bedside when she came to apologize to him. This time, her polished manner had changed, and her anger was very apparent. "Detective Ellison. What seems to be the problem here?" 

"We need assistance in identifying a body in our morgue." 

"Then I assume your department has filed the necessary warrant." 

"We have. The records we received are missing a crucial piece of information." 

"And that is?" 

"We need a DNA sample to identify Sachs' body conclusively. We know that he used a blood bank, and we need a sample of that blood for the DNA tests. The records we received did not include the name of the blood bank." 

She thought for a moment. "Detective, I understand your request. However, by your own admission, your department has not been able to conclusively ID the body you have as Didion Sachs. So, until that happens, or until an inquest does that for you, we have to assume that Sachs is still alive. And as such, we have an ethical duty to protect the confidentiality of his records." 

"But we cannot ID the body without a sample of his blood. This is not an issue over confidentiality." 

"Ellison," she snapped, raising her hand. "I don't have time for this. This is an legal restriction. You are an officer of the law. I expect _you_ to abide by those laws as much as you expect _me_ to abide by them. I will not open those medical records until you return here with a warrant specifically requesting the information you want and the reason you need it." 

Jim opened his mouth to repeat his argument when Dr. Simmons stopped him with another impatient wave of her hand. "Enough, detective. Leave. Return with a warrant." With that, she turned her back on the man and stormed out of the records department. Jim waited a few seconds, not really believing what had happened. As he prepared to walk out, he couldn't bear to look at the records employee's face, too certain he'd see a smug look on it. With his hand on the door, he heard Blair's cheerful goodbye to her. 

* * *

Back in the truck, Jim stared through the windshield for a moment. He remained perfectly still, and Blair watched him, slightly apprehensive. Then, like a shot, Jim slammed his fist on the steering wheel. "Damnit." 

"Don't let it do this to you." 

"This is so damn annoying." 

"She's got a point, Jim. She has to play by the rules. So do we." 

"Don't _you_ start quoting rules to me. You of all people." 

"I know. Come on, let's grab some lunch and get this warrant." 

"I already ate." 

"No you didn't. I saw you throw out that hot dog after only two bites." 

As Jim started the truck, Blair let his mind drift. He didn't pay any attention to the change in scenery outside his window, but he suddenly realized that he and Jim were waiting at a red light when he remembered. "Hey, Jim?" 

"What?" His tone of voice was tired and strained, but Blair ignored it. 

"If Bass and Didion both gave blood for a private blood bank, what are the odds that they would use the same bank?" 

"What are you getting at?" 

"Bass told me that he had been mugged in New York once. He had a scar across his chest. He even said that the men we're after tried to kill him in New York. It has to be the same incident." 

"Do you have any idea how many hospitals are in New York?" 

"He said it happened in Manhattan. While we wait for the warrant, I can start calling around to see if I can find it. Then we can ask to see what blood bank they have on file." 

"You'll still get the same response. You'll need a warrant." 

"But Bass is dead. Officially dead. I visually ID'ed the body." 

"It's worth a shot," Jim mumbled. 

* * *

At the station, Blair tapped his ballpoint pen on the yellow legal pad in front of him. He held a phone to his ear, but he could only hear the silent void of being on hold. A half-eaten tuna fish sandwich lay on crinkled wax paper on Jim's desk. "Come on." 

Jim smirked, another phone pressed to his ear. "Now who's impatient?" 

"Don't say anything to me, man. How long does it take to get a warrant?" 

"This isn't just standard procedure, Chief. We have the body. And no suspect. So we're low on the priority list. We're stuck behind all the other warrants where guys are waiting to make a bust. Besides, we're asking for something out of the ordinary, and--" he shoved his ham and cheese sandwich with his pen "--it's lunchtime, so most of the judges aren't at their desks." 

"What. Ever." 

"Any luck?" 

"None." 

Jim peeked over at his notepad, but he couldn't make out anything except for odd drawings in the margins. "How many places have you called?" 

"Three. And you?" 

"I'm on hold with my fourth." 

Blair held up his finger. "Yes, thanks, did you find anything?" 

Jim's second line began to ring. He disconnected his first line and answered the other, "Ellison." 

"You do?" 

"Yes, that's correct. Cascade General." 

"I just need one piece of information. Does your file mention a blood bank that Sebastian Sanders would have used?" 

"Yes, I think I will need a copy of the warrant to take with me. How soon can I run over to your office and pick it up?" 

"Oh. I see." 

"Thanks. I'm on my way over." Jim hung up the phone. "Oh. I see. Well. Thank you for your time." Blair placed his phone on the cradle gently. "Jim?" 

"I got the warrant." 

"We may have some trouble." 

"What?" 

"I found the hospital Bass went to." 

"So what's wrong?" 

"Bass' medical records were seized by the CIA this morning." 

Jim felt his gut drop. "Come on, Chief. We've got to get back to the hospital before they do." 

* * *

"Explain this to me again?" Jim asked, trying vainly to hold back his rage. 

The records employee shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know what to tell you. I can't find the records." 

"But I have a warrant this time." Jim waved the paper in the air. 

"I know, I know. But there aren't any files." 

Jim rolled his head around on his neck, not believing what was happening. "This is unreal." He and Blair had been standing there for close to thirty minutes. By this time, Blair was already sitting in one of the chairs opposite the counter, his feet stretched out and his eyes counting the holes in his shoes for the strings to loop through. Trying to work out his anger, Jim dialed up his vision as much as he could, easily reading labels and tags of books, clipboards, and folders. 

Then his vision alighted on the letters -- "dion." 

"There." He pointed. "On that table back there. Those files. What are those?" 

"Those just came from the floor a few minutes ago." 

"Check those." 

"But that's a waste of time, officer," the employee complained as she moved across the office to the small stack of folders. "These are all recent patients." She thumbed through the files. "Hmm. Well, I don't understand it." She opened the file that Jim had found and pulled out one single slip of yellow paper. After she read it, she turned up her wrist to read her watch. 

"What is it?" Jim asked. 

"These files were just seized. While I was at lunch." 

"Let me guess," Blair's cold voice rose from the chair. "By the CIA." 

"Well, yes," the woman answered. "How did you know?" 

* * *

Finally back at the station again, Jim threw his coat across his desk. During the drive back to the precinct, he couldn't speak. His anger was total. But inside his spine, there was something else. Another emotion. Fear. The kind of fear an animal has when it's backed into a corner. Jim knew he was fighting against forces much stronger than he. Against enemies with no bodies, with no names, made of smoke and mirrors. Half of him wanted to give up and let these strange forces take Didion and Sebastian without a fight. He hadn't been standing in the bullpen long when Simon leaned out of his office doorway and waved to him. "Hey, Jim, step in here a moment." 

After Jim strolled into his office, he slowly closed the frosted glass door. "Yes sir." His voice betrayed his sense of defeat. 

"The CIA just waltzed in here again. Took the bodies. Took all the other evidence." 

Jim's shoulders sagged. Now it was total. They had won. "So what now?" 

"Nothing much we can do. Case is closed." 

The detective frowned. "Thank you, anyway, sir." 

"Oh, Jim." 

"Yes sir?" 

"We did find several bugs in your place. I sent them to Seattle to be identified." Simon sat back in his chair, inserting his cigar back in his mouth. 

"Don't bother sir. They'll just take those, too." He started to leave. 

"Wait up, Jim." 

"Yes sir." 

"Tomorrow afternoon, the mayor has asked us to help out during the ceremony the El Salvadoran delegation is making in Pioneer Park." 

"Whatever. Looks like I'm free, doesn't it?" 

"Yep. Looks like it." 

"Goodnight, sir." With that, Jim left Simon's office with his posture slumped. 

* * *

Behind his massive burlwood desk, Burlington continued to read the latest reports on the current profits of cocaine sales along the Pacific Northwest. In the background, Bach's concerto for violin and oboe fluttered in the air. Burlington's agile mind dissected each chord, hearing the movement of fingers on the violin fretboards and the puff of the wind player's breath, even as he calculated returns and investments. The door to his office opened, and Burlington allowed a third channel to form in his brain. His ears continued to focus on the music, and his eyes did not stop scanning the spreadsheets in his hands as he asked, "Yes, Perth. Is Didion Sachs' assistant dead?" 

"Yes, your grace." 

"And the investigation?" 

"I have received reports that the CIA has moved in to stop the local investigation." 

"Very good. Carry on." 

"Your grace?" 

"Yes, Perth." 

"We lost contact with two of our centurions today." 

Burlington allowed the spreadsheets to fall into his lap, and he closed his mind to the music. "How?" 

"Unknown, your grace. Both were found dead, shot from a distance." 

"Damn Rangers. Have you discovered the second Ranger yet?" 

"We've been monitoring one of the local detectives -- James Ellison. He was able to trace a vehicle that exploded near Didion Sachs residence. It belongs to a Lieutenant Phillip Harrison of the US Army Rangers. We are certain he is our second agent." 

"Are you having him targeted?" 

"Yes, your grace, but there's more. This local detective, he is also an Army Ranger." 

"An Army Ranger, investigating another Army Ranger? What are the chances that he's a hypersensitive?" 

"I have ordered testing of his senses, your grace, but the motivation for investigating Harrison is confusing. Ellison's affiliation with the Rangers may be an coincidence." 

"The explosion at Sachs residence -- who caused it?" "We were able to steal some of the evidence last night, your grace. The explosive was of CIA origin. We believe the CIA was trying to cover up the existence of their hypersensitive program from the local police." 

"Typical. Warn Cordova that there is an agent at large in her area, and then send in three more centurions." 

"Yes, your grace." 

* * *

Jim parked the truck in front of Blair's apartment. He waited a moment as Blair gathered his stuff, when finally he said, "Sandburg, can I ask you something?" 

Blair eyed his partner warily. "I guess." 

"So much has happened the past couple of days, and . . . normally when we are on a case, you and I . . . we sort of talk things out together." Jim squeezed the steering wheel. "I was wondering if . . . you would help me out here. Can we . . . talk about it . . . I mean the case?" 

"I guess." Blair looked up at his apartment. "It's kinda cold in the truck. Can we take this upstairs?" 

Jim sighed with relief. "Yeah. Can we?" 

"Sure." Blair opened the door. "Come on." 

The detective followed his guide up the stairs, watching him move. /What went down that night, Chief? You were with Miriam when her gun was stolen. Your car was warm that night. Your jacket was still cold. I could smell you in Didion's office./ 

Blair unlocked the door and motioned for Jim to step inside. 

/Why won't you tell me what happened? Why won't you come clean with me? Have we really split this far apart?/ Jim paced the apartment, looking out the picture window. Blair sat down on the sofa and observed his nervousness. 

"Jim, what's bothering you?" 

Jim hesitated before answering, his fingers lifting up the slats in the blinds. "What . . . what were you doing the night Didion was killed?" 

"Jim, what exactly are you asking?" 

"I . . . I need to know." 

"After Miriam took me back to Rainier, I stayed in my office. . . . Jim, are you looking for an alibi?" 

"Yes," he answered quickly. 

Blair was taken aback. "W-why?" 

"Blair, I could smell you . . . in Didion's office." 

"Smell me?" 

"Yes." 

"Jim, of course you smelled me. I was with you, remember?" 

"No, you remained upstairs with Bass. But in Didion's office, I could smell residual traces of you." 

"Are you sure you didn't just smell me from upstairs?" 

Jim gave him a wry look. 

"Okay, okay." 

"Blair, I need to know." 

"Jim, you know I wouldn't kill anyone." 

"Blair, I happen to know you can. And that you have." 

Suddenly Blair paled at the memory of Marshall Aigle. "That was fucking low." 

At that moment, the door opened, and Collin stepped in with a laundry basket. "Oh. Hello, Jim." He glanced over a Blair with a look of concern. "Is everything okay? Do I need to leave?" 

"No, we're fine." Blair looked sternly at Jim. "Jim was just about to leave." 

" _Oh_. In that case, I just washed that shirt I borrowed from you Tuesday. Where do you want me to put it?" 

Jim's eyes grew wide, and Blair noticed it. "No, Jim." 

"What?" Collin asked. 

"Jim, don't." 

"Collin, where were you the night Didion was killed?" 

Collin laughed. "What? Is this like some bad Nero Wolfe movie?" 

Jim was serious. "Just answer the question." "I already told you. I don't have an alibi, but I can damn sure tell you that I'd be smart enough to have a good one if I was planning on killing Didion." Jim looked down at his hands, then over to Blair. Collin hefted the laundry basket on his hip and added, "Now, if you'll excuse me. I've been scrubbing out blood stains all evening, and I need a cocktail." 

"Bloodstains?" 

"It's a joke, Jim," Collin explained with a withering look before he left for his bedroom. 

Blair was not amused. "I think you should go now." 

"Blair, this isn't funny. I smelled you in Didion's office." 

"Jim, I wasn't really sure where his office was until after he was killed." 

"Then that means the killer was with you before he shot Didion. Or," he pointed to Collin's room, "he was wearing something of yours." 

"Jim, the only thing dangerous about Collin is his mouth." 

"We don't know that. And quite frankly, he has about as much motive as any other suspect. Besides, Blair, that doesn't change anything. Either you were in that office, or someone you know was in that office. Someone who was close to you." 

Blair thought for a moment. "Wait a minute, Jim," he said, brushing off the thought. "We're jumping to conclusions. It has to be Bass. Bass would have every reason to be in Didion's office, and he and I . . . have been close." 

Jim paused before he asked it. "That night . . . did you two . . . sleep together?" 

"I don't think that's any of your business," he snapped. Jim immediately stood to leave. "Oh, hell, no you don't," Blair growled. "Don't walk out of here with some sad face trying to make me feel guilty. Not when you've been fucking Whitmore all this time." 

Standing at the door, Jim turned. "I know that, Blair. Why do you think I'm not saying anything? . . . As much as I hate saying this, I don't have any claim to you anymore . . . I love you. I'd do anything to get you back. And the fact that you just want to be partners hurts all the more." He opened the door. "Just be careful. Okay, Chief? Someone you know killed Didion Sachs. And as much good as that did the world, this person is still a killer." 

* * *

Later that night, across town, Phillip Harrison heard his cell phone ringing. Moving to the other side of the room, he lifted the phone, reading the caller id over the green LCD display. Answering it, he waited for the mechanical female voice to respond, "Secure line accessed," then a beep. "Lieutenant Harrison." 

"Major Allen, here." 

"Yes sir." 

"There's been a change in your orders." 

"Yes sir." 

"You are to eliminate Doctor Ian Yoshito in a public place." 

"Sir?" 

"We need this mission to send a clear message to everyone involved with the project. As much publicity as possible." 

"Yes sir." 

"How likely is it that Dr. Yoshito will be at the Salvadoran memorial ceremony tomorrow afternoon? The media will be there." 

"I think it can be engineered. But security will be extremely tight." 

"You'll have no problems getting close." 

"I'm more concerned about breaking through the perimeter afterwards." 

"Don't be. If you are captured, you'll be transferred to the CIA and then reassigned to another mission." 

"Understood, sir." 

"You have a second mission, Lieutenant." 

"The Order centurion, sir?" 

"No. You are still not to make contact with the Order's principle agent. Not yet. That would cause them to escalate their activities within the city. No, the incident with Captain Sachs has sent certain . . . shockwaves that we need to handle first. In addition to Yoshito, you are ordered to eliminate Detective James Ellison as well. He works for Major Crimes." 

"Any particular priority, sir?" 

"Yes. Yoshito first. Ellison second." 

"Yes sir." 

Phillip closed the cell phone, then stared out his apartment window at the low-hanging gray clouds. /Just what the hell is going on?/ 

* * *

Ian set his morning cup of coffee on the nurse's station, then reached for the file for his next patient with some weariness. He only gave it a cursory glance -- reading the name, gender, age -- then scanning the patient's complaints -- tinnitus. /He wants to see a bloody neurologist for this?/ He shrugged his shoulders. /Whatever. It's his insurance. I suppose if I can help Jim with his hearing, I can help this man with his./ Thinking of Jim, Ian felt the old weight around his shoulders and chest again. These last few days had left him still in a state of shock, and his stomach felt cold when he tried to cope. Didion Sachs was dead. He wasn't too upset about that -- granted, Didion had only treated him to lunch a few times. Yet the manner of his death was disturbing enough, along with the fact that another genetically altered Army Ranger had appeared in his life. /I should have known I'd never be able to leave the clinic. I guess I should have stayed there. In hell. Now the bloody demons just chase after me./ 

Then there was Collin. Although their relationship was comfortable, and very intimate, the truth is he wasn't sure if he and Collin were "in love" with each other. Nothing seemed to boil with them. Rather, they seemed like warm tea together -- soothing, relaxing. Thinking back, Ian realized that even with Blair, he didn't experience anything akin to the other relationships he'd had in the past. Sure, he always thought of Collin. He knew he would be hurt if Collin ever left his life and that he'd miss him terribly. But at the same time, he knew his happiness didn't hinge ultimately on Collin's presence, and that bothered him a little. He kept expecting to suddenly hear a chorus from the heavenly host or to feel the burning rush of consummated passion. Instead, he and Collin seemed to move gracefully around each other in a modest domestic dance -- pleasant, comfortable, heart-warming. 

And again he wondered that if he and Collin separated, would he feel the same rage and desperation that he saw Blair going through day after day. 

Ian examined his fingernails. /You don't trust him any more./ Ever since he had learned that Collin was, at this point, indirectly involved with Project 57, he found himself being less and less open with his lover. His heart told him that Collin was no more involved than Jim and Blair \-- another innocent individual touched by the Project with little or no consciousness of it. His cousin Sebastian had fallen for a sentinel, just as Blair had done. 

/Just as you did, Ian./ 

The doctor sighed, though none of the nurses seemed to notice. /Yes, but Quinn is dead./ Picking up his coffee, Ian turned towards the examining room. /What is it about these bloody men that we find so intriguing. Something about their personalities -- hard and imposing on the outside, but so deep and passionate and sensitive inside? Is it any wonder these men eventually stop killing, and accept the cancer so willingly, even though they know it's fatal? Perhaps that's why the Project created only one treatment, one that makes these men develop cancer if they refuse to kill -- they don't want an army of kind-hearted sentinels turning against them./ 

"Excuse me, doctor." 

The nurse's voice startled Ian, and he realized he had been standing in the middle of the hall. "Pardon me," he said softly, forcing a smile before setting his coffee down again, this time on the small table outside the examining room. He raked his fingers through his thick black hair, and as if to play with him, the hair fell back in the same wave across his forehead. Ian opened the door and glanced down at the name on the file before speaking to his patient. 

"Phillip Harrison?" Ian looked up at the man sitting on the side of the examining bed. 

"Yes, doctor." 

Holding out his hand, Ian offered, "I'm Doctor Yoshito." He gauged the man's strength as he shook his hand. His patient seemed younger than his age on the charts. /Must be his face./ Phillip's large eyes and dimpled chin belied a boy next-door charm. Even so, his face had been scratched and bruised by something. "What seems to be the problem today, Mr. Harrison?" 

"I have this ringing in my ears." 

"If you don't mind me saying so, you look like you've been in a fight." 

"I was helping a buddy set up for a fireworks demonstration. I guess you could say the show started too early." 

Ian smiled slightly. "Sounds fairly cut and dry. Let me examine your ears, if I may." The doctor slid his stereoscope into Phillip's right ear. Drawing closer, he noticed his muscled shoulders and firm arms beneath the cloth of his patient's white button-down shirt. He shook the physical attraction from his mind, then peered into his instrument. "I don't see any outside damage, which is good. Have you experienced any dizziness or nausea?" 

"No, not really." 

"That's a good sign. Suggests there's no inner ear damage." 

"When will it stop?" 

"That's a good question. Maybe within a few days. Maybe a few weeks, depending on how quickly your ears heal from the blast. Let me give you the name of a good ear-nose-and-throat doctor. He should be able to treat you better." 

"Thank you, doctor." 

"In the mean time, I can prescribe something for you to help alleviate some of the symptoms." 

Ian turned to the table inside the examining room to begin writing the prescription, he didn't notice Phillip's eyes narrow dangerously as he tried to memorize all of the doctor's details -- his voice, his smell, the sounds of his heart. The agent dialed up his hearing, and he could feel the ringing in his ears grow more annoying. Even so, he caught himself imagining Ian's svelte, muscular body sliding beneath his hands. Phillip squeezed his eyes shut to force the arousing images down. 

* * *

Concluded in section three.

Link to text version of section three: http://www.squidge.org/archive/cgi-bin/convert.cgi?filename=drama6/timedoes_b.html 


	3. Chapter 3

This story has been split into three sections for easier loading.

## Time Does Not Bring Relief, Part III

by Kadru

Author's webpage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Author's notes and disclaimer in part one. 

* * *

Time Does Not Bring Relief, Part III - section three 

Blair slammed one dresser drawer closed, then opened another. "Damnit." He ruffled through socks and underwear, letting them fall to the floor unnoticed before he placed his hands on his hips. "Hey, Collin?" 

He heard his roommate shout from the front room. "Yeah?" 

"Have you seen my scarf?" 

"Which one?" 

"The purple one?" 

"No. Where'd you set it down?" 

"Thanks, mom. If I knew that, I'd know where I put it." 

Collin peered into his room. "When do you last remember having it?" 

"Tuesday." 

"Morning or night?" 

"I had it in the university. Bass came and picked me up." 

"Did you have it at Stan's?" 

"I don't remember. I don't think so." 

"Then you must have left it in Bass' car. Who has his car now?" 

Blair threw up his hands. "The CIA." 

"Don't count on getting it back, then. You want to borrow one of mine?" 

"You don't mind, do you?" 

Collin shrugged his shoulders. He stepped towards the coat rack and grabbed a long flannel scarf. "Here, take this one. It matches what you have on." 

"Thanks." As Blair passed by their small kitchen table, he noticed Collin's laptop turned on and linked to the university's email system. "You planning on working at home today?" 

"No, not really. I just got this note from Miriam. It's strange, 'cause she usually calls. She must be busy. Anyway, she wants me and Ian to stop by some dedication ceremony she's involved with this afternoon. This is the last day of her assignment with the delegation she's working with, and she wants us to see her in action before she leaves." 

"You and Ian, huh? Do you think Ian can get free?" 

"I'll call and see. He's usually off on Friday afternoons." 

Blair nodded, remembering his schedule when they were dating. "I'll be there." 

Collin arched an eyebrow. "You will? Why?" 

"Jim's working security." 

"And you have to be there with him?" 

"That's the score." Blair draped the scarf around his neck. "Listen, I have to go. I'm late already. I'll see you at the dedication ceremony." 

"Hey," Collin called out as Blair opened the door. "If you're free afterwards, maybe you could join us for dinner?" 

"Deal." Blair rushed down the steps to his car. As he sat behind the seat, he pulled at Collin's scarf slightly, having wrapped it too tightly in the apartment. The flannel felt soft and warm against his skin. /Damnit, I hate that I left that scarf in Bass' car. Mom gave me that scarf. She's going to kill me when she finds out I lost it./ Blair reached for his keys, then froze. 

/Miriam's gun was taken that night./ 

/What if I didn't leave my scarf? What if it was taken, too?/ 

/But no one found my scarf at Didion's. And no one found the gun either./ 

/Jim said he smelled me in Didion's office. What if he smelled my scarf?/ 

Blair opened his eyes wide, running all the pieces together. "Oh. My. God." 

* * *

"Thanks for coming with me." Collin closed the door to Ian's black BMW. 

"No problem," Ian answered softly. "You know I don't mind." 

"I know you have patients and all." 

"Today was quiet. You caught me at a good time. Besides, I usually take Friday afternoon off as it is." 

"Did I steal you from your golf game?" 

Ian winked at him. "You know I don't play golf." For a moment, he wanted to reach out, to hold Collin's hand as they walked down the street towards Pioneer Park. "Sorry I had to park so far away." He stood for a moment as the sun shone fully through the clouds. Standing close to Collin, shoulder to shoulder, he could see how his lover's auburn hair sparkled with blond highlights. Unable to hold back, he hooked his finger around Collin's bearded chin to make the young man face him. His beard scratched Ian's finger pleasantly. As he stared into Collin's jade green eyes, he traced his jawline. "I love you, you know?" 

Collin smiled, bumping Ian with his shoulder. "Get out. I bet you say that to all your boyfriends." 

"Just the one's who make me smile." 

Collin's eyes relaxed slightly. He placed his hands on Ian's hips, pulling him a little closer. "I wondered, you know?" 

"I thought you might have. We've been a little . . . distant lately." 

"It's this thing with Bass. It's thrown me for a loop." 

"I understand." 

"And I haven't even helped Aunt Doreen with Bass' funeral. I guess I don't want to. If I do, that means it's for real. You know? That's he's really gone. I don't want him to be gone. I don't want this." 

Ian pulled Collin close to him, his strong arms wrapped around his shoulders. "I know, baby. I know. It's still early." 

"But he was killed three days ago." 

"When will the CIA return the body?" 

"They haven't said. Probably never. Aunt Doreen still wants a memorial service, though. To help her cope. Some closure." 

"Where's the service going to be?" 

"Savannah, I guess." 

"Tell me when. I'll make sure I'm free." 

"You don't have to." 

"That's nonsense. I'll be by your side, Collin. Always. Don't forget that." 

Collin nodded slightly, his eyes downcast. "Okay." 

Hearing his defeated voice, Ian bent down and placed a chaste kiss on Collin's forehead. "Come on. Let's find a place near the podium so Miriam can see that we're here. Then tonight, I'm taking you both out to dinner. Let's go." Ian gave Collin a gentle push to start making their way towards the ceremony, his right arm still draped over Collin's shoulder. The southerner relaxed, leaning against the doctor's lean, warm body. 

Neither of them noticed the stranger stalking them. He walked at the same pace that they did, staring occasionally at store fronts, pausing to scan the headlines at a small newsstand. He wore dark sunglasses, and the collar of his long beige trenchcoat was pulled high against his neck. A burgundy scarf fluttered in the cold breeze. Despite the attempts to cover himself, red scratches marked his face. Gloves protected his hands and hid the healing cuts on his fingers. Making his appointment with Ian that morning had confirmed the doctor's schedule and that he was free this afternoon. Faking the email to his thin, long-haired partner had been too easy. 

Even though the city had expanded its security force for the afternoon's ceremony, the perimeter around the park was lightly screened. A few bags were searched, but no men were stopped and frisked. Phillip stopped in front of a metal display case of postcards while Ian and Collin passed several police officers. He flipped through photos of Mount Rainier, Mount Baker, Mount Hood, Puget Sound, the Jags, before sliding the last postcard of a killer whale back in its holder and heading towards the security ring. Two officers stood near the park entrance as Phillip came near. Eventually he stood eye to eye with them. 

"Hey, buddy," one of the officers called out. "Wait up." 

Phillip stopped, turning slightly. "Yes?" 

The officer moved from side to side as if trying to peer around the agent's dark glasses. "Man, you sure took a licking." 

"Yes I did." 

"Next time take a dive, man." 

"Is that all, officer?" 

Both men stood face to face, neither moving. Finally the police officer waved him on, "Keep going, man. Just ribbing ya." 

Silently, Phillip glanced over his shoulder for one last look as he melted into the crowd. He tried to dial up his hearing to track Ian's heartbeat, but the persistent ringing in his ear from the explosion made him wince. Instead, he used his nose to find Ian's distinctive cologne. 

* * *

Blair had to trot behind Jim just to keep up. "Hold on, man," he whispered, not enough to draw attention to himself in the crowd, but loud enough for Jim to hear him. Turning on his heels but continuing to walk backwards, Jim shot him a frown before crooking his head quickly, motioning for him to hurry up. Sighing out loud, Blair broke into a run just to grab Jim's elbow. "What's the rush, man?" 

"This is just ridiculous," he mumbled, shaking Blair off his arm and stalking away. 

"Explain." 

"I can't accept that this investigation's closed, Chief. And I don't have time for this." He waved his hand over the crowd. "I mean, these jerks aren't even serious about security. They aren't checking half these bags. No metal detectors. I mean, how hard is it to bring in a few wands?" 

"Well, we aren't in charge here, are we?" 

"Apparently," he growled. 

"Who is, anyway?" 

"Some guy from El Salvador. Said he didn't want this ceremony looking too militarized." 

"Well, you're a former leftist general here to present some plaque to the people of Cascade for sending food and clothes during your civil war. Would you want people seeing nothing but guns and uniforms?" 

Jim whirled around on his feet, facing Blair suddenly. "If he's so damn concerned about image, then why the hell are _we_ here, huh? We've got things to do." Jim's cell phone began to ring, disturbing their argument. "Ellison." 

"Banks, here." 

"Yes sir. I'm in position." 

"Good. The delegation's arrived." 

Jim flipped his cell phone closed, then inspected the environment. Pioneer Park had been placed along the edge of Puget Sound on a narrow strip of land used mainly by joggers and pet owners -- little more than a ribbon of grass dotted with trees and divided in half by a sand-colored concrete path. The city council had chosen a spot near an intersection where two major streets came together in a V-shape before ending in front of the widest part of the park. A small wooden dias had been set up near the water -- folded chairs lined the platform. In the center stood the podium, mikes and wires draped over it, and the granite marker which held the bronze plaque already in place but covered with blue velvet. The park was surrounded by Cascade's skyscrapers and several parking garages. 

The detective's attention turned to the small motorcade. The first limousine came to a stop. Doors opened. Out stepped a lithe female, her long black hair hovering in the breeze for a moment before landing softly on her shoulders. She paused and waited for a dark-suited gentleman to exit. He stood tall and proud, aristocratic and foreboding. Jim disliked him instantly. The gentleman scrutinized the crowd without smiling, then approached the dias ahead of the woman. "Hey Jim, do you see Miriam?" Blair asked, trying to look over the crowd. The doors to the second car opened, and Jim quickly spotted her wild red hair twisting and turning in the shoreline breeze. 

"Yeah, that's her." 

The delegation made its way to the stand, with the general seating himself first. Miriam looked around, unsure, but she didn't try to make out any faces in the crowd. Cordova waited for everyone else to sit before taking a chair herself. The mayor and several of his staff members remained standing near the podium. "Let's begin," Jim heard the mayor say before he stepped closer to the microphone. 

* * *

"That's strange," Collin mumbled, his shoulder still brushing intimately against Ian's. He continued to crane his neck around other observers. 

"What's that?" 

"Miriam sent me an email, asking us to be here, but she doesn't seem too concerned about looking for us." 

"There's a big crowd." 

He looked around him at the sparse gathering. "Pfffftt. Hardly." 

"She's probably nervous." 

Collin shrugged his shoulders. "There's a first time for everything." 

Behind them, Phillip eased to the right of a man who was standing, watching the podium. He angled his shoulder slightly, then bending it forward, gently pushed the stranger back. Ever so slowly, he came closer. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," the mayor began. "I'd like to thank you for coming out here today, despite the cold. Today our city is receiving a great honor, not for our achievement, but for our generosity. Or rather, _your_ generosity. I'm glad to see such a crowd here today to welcome our guests from El Salvador. We have with us Deputy Minister of Finance Raul Velarde and his staff to present this honor. So with no further ado, I present to you our esteemed guests. Minister Velarde?" With a wave and a side step, the mayor backed away from the podium as the crowd began to clap. All except for Phillip, as he advanced closer. 

Deputy Minister Velarde rose to his feet, nodding slightly to the mayor, but he stepped aside gracefully as Beverly Cordova took her place at the podium first. She reached for one microphone, adjusting it slightly and causing a high-pitched shriek of feedback to echo off the buildings. Toward the back of the crowd, Jim Ellison grabbed his ear, while Blair touched his arm to calm him. Phillip did the same thing, halting for a moment to rub his temples and dial his hearing down even further. For a second, Cordova froze, her eyes quickly darting across the crowd, only to alight on Phillip as he tried to overcome the sudden sound. She focused on him as the deputy minister took his place at her side. 

"Gracias, Mayor Jordon," he began, speaking for a moment before Cordova leaned into the microphone to interpret his words into English. 

"That's weird," Collin said. 

"What's that?" 

"Miriam said the deputy minister was extremely fluent in English." 

"So?" 

"So why does he need a translator?" Collin glanced over another bystander to check his friend. She sat very meekly, her hands in her lap and her eyes drilling into the wooden platform. "Hmm." 

Phillip raised his hand, placing it firmly on a woman's upper arm. She turned sharply in surprise, then felt an unnatural fear at his red scars. She moved out of his way as he pushed forward. One other person stood between him and Ian. As he guided that person to the side, he parted his trenchcoat and reached for his silenced semi-automatic. 

In the distance, Jim heard the distinctive sound of a chamber being loaded. His heart skipped a beat, and instinctively he reached for his gun. He had the gun halfway out of its brown leather case when he heard members of the crowd gasp. 

Ian heard the gasping, too. With one eyebrow raised in annoyance, he turned slightly, looking over his shoulder. 

Collin noticed his movement. He turned also. 

Then time seemed to move slowly for Collin. He noticed Ian standing there, motionless, his eyes wide with shock. In front of him stood a trench-coated gunman, his weapon aimed directly at his lover, the silenced barrel pointing into his face. He had no time to breathe and only barely changed his line of vision back to his lover's frozen expression. 

Suddenly, a puff of air sounded. Ian's face splashed with red. Too late, his hands rose automatically in the air in a failed attempt to protect himself as he fell back into the crowd, his knees buckling. 

* * *

Jim cocked his gun and lifted it to his eyes. 

* * *

Still focused on Ian's collapsing body, Collin was taken off-guard when Phillip's muscled frame landed into his chest like a tackling football player. Both began to fall to the ground. 

* * *

Screams pealed through the crowd. The corner of Jim's eyes winced from the sudden level of harsh noise, but he didn't dare dial down his senses now. He had to focus on the sounds. He took aim into the crowd. Something was wrong, but he couldn't place it -- the sounds weren't right. 

* * *

On stage, Beverly Cordova saw the burst of red flesh and she reacted with lightning speed. With her right hand, she quickly snatched out her own weapon, while with her left, she bent down to the young woman sitting dazed in her metal chair. Having no idea what was going on, Miriam felt the translator's superior strength yank her from her seat just seconds before she recognized the hard prod of Cordova's gun in her ribs. The translator positioned her in front of the deputy minister, the gun still deep in Miriam's side. The frightened young woman stood there, in shock, watching the crowd part from the dark-haired man who had just fallen red-faced to the ground. Only then did she spot Collin. She saw her friend turn after looking at Ian collapse on the ground only a second before the trench-coat wearing stranger fell upon him. 

* * *

In the back, Jim heard a chamber loading again. This time he noted the general direction of the sound. He began to pivot on his heels, away from the crowd. Seeing Jim shift his position, Blair's eyes narrowed with confusion. 

* * *

Cordova cocked her gun. Miriam's throat sealed tight as she closed her eyes. /This is it,/ she thought. 

* * *

A silenced gunshot reached Jim's ears. This time he pinpointed the sound. 

* * *

Collin felt his body rocking back as Phillip rolled on top of him. Both landed on the ground hard. Collin choked, his breath knocked out of him. Acting impulsively, he shoved Phillip off him with as much force as he could muster, trying to get to Ian's aid. 

* * *

Still on stage, Miriam felt the bullet pierce her red curls before she perceived the hot wet splash against her ear. 

* * *

In the crowd, Phillip's body flopped onto his back, motionless. Collin drew his hand to his mouth. The young agent's face had been replaced by a chaos of red, exploded mush. 

* * *

Blair stared in disbelief as Jim raised his gun into the air and hinged his weight to the right. "What the hell are you doing?!" He instantly flinched when Jim's firearm exploded so close to his ears. 

Jim, his vision tunneling down, fired at the dark blimp astride the concrete barrier on the top floor of the parking garage at the opposite end of the park. He saw the tiny spatter of blood in the air and knew he had scored a direct hit. Within seconds he dashed towards the garage, leaving Blair standing there, wondering what had just happened. 

* * *

On the dias, Miriam reached for her left ear, her body trembling forcefully. The only gunshot she had heard came from Jim Ellison's weapon in the back of the crowd. Her mouth remained open, unable to scream. She knew she had felt something tear through her hair. She knew she had. And she had felt the warm splash right where the bullet had passed through. Deputy Minister Velarde leapt to the right, his body ducking for safety, and that drew her attention slightly. Shaking fitfully, Miriam slowly, slowly turned to her left as her hand touched her ear, feeling her hair turned slick by something. 

Miriam gasped. Cordova's body lay in a bleeding heap on the platform floor, her tranquil limbs draped over the tumbled metal folding chairs. Finally, Miriam found the breath to scream. 

* * *

On the ground, lying on his back before the stage, his hands behind him, his knees bent slightly, Collin continued to stare downward at the lifeless body which he had just thrown off of him. A pair of dark sunglasses hung at an unnatural angle from his ear. Nothing was left of his forehead but a messy crater. 

A strong hand grabbed his arm. Collin nearly jumped to his feet. 

"Are you alright," the unsteady Oxford accent asked. 

Collin face paled when he saw Ian leaning on his elbow beside him. "Ian?" 

Quickly Ian wiped the blood and parts of Phillip's flesh from his cheeks. "Are you hurt?" 

"Am _I_ hurt?!" 

* * *

When Blair saw Ian stand and lift Collin from the ground, he let his left shoulder dip slightly as he put his body in motion. His leg muscles burned as he pushed himself into a sudden run, tearing after Jim with all the energy he could muster. Jim had gained almost sixty feet on Blair by the time the guide had reacted, and he launched himself after his partner. 

Several hundred feet from them both, Simon, Rafe and Taggart noticed the two men racing towards the parking garage. With weapons drawn, they tailed after them. 

In front of Jim lay the parking garage entrance. A small doorway led to a staircase, and he directed himself to that. Once inside the small area, he noticed the stairs to his right. Another doorway next to the stairs opened onto to a narrow hallway that led underneath the parking garage ramp. In his haste, Jim leapt onto the third stair and began his ascent. He was on the second level and climbing rapidly by the time Blair entered the stairwell. 

* * *

Just as Blair ran into the stairwell, the sudden appearance of a dark figure jumping from underneath the stairs took Blair off guard. The academic stood there for a second, dumbfounded. The stranger seized him by the arm and literally tossed him into the narrow hallway. As Blair fell backward, he saw the man kick the doorstop away from the outside door before slamming it shut. With a forward surge, the mysterious figure pushed Blair again into the hallway before closing the second door. 

* * *

Moments later, Simon and the others reached the stairwell entrance. Simon grabbed the doorknob, only to notice a small metal ring encasing it. He turned it several times, but the ring prevented him from gripping the knob. "Come on," he shouted, and he led his men into the garage as they ran up the curving ramp to join Ellison on the top level. 

* * *

Jim kicked open the final doorway leading onto the top parking level. The cold open air chilled his face. Navigating the narrow spaces between the parked cars on the top floor of the garage, he used his hearing to locate the gunman. The rhythm didn't seem right. His heart beat loudly, but not rapidly -- measured and mechanical. Carefully Jim shifted his heavy weight around the trunk of a large sedan, peering around the side towards the concrete wall where he had last seen the killer take aim. The gun felt hot in his hand as Jim pivoted on the balls of his feet, shifted into the line of fire and shouted, "Freeze! Police!" 

Jim got a good look at the killer, leaning against the short retaining wall along the roof's edge. He gripped his right shoulder, blood staining his fingers bright red. Despite the man's dark brown beard, Jim could see him grimace with considerable pain. 

"Kick your weapon aside." 

The killer did so with his foot. With cautious steps, Jim crept forward until he was close enough to drag the rifle away with his heel. Aiming into the killer's chest, he commanded, "Now stand up." 

The gunman did so with some trouble, then stood eye to eye with Jim. Slowly Jim's eyes grew wide as he recognized the face behind the beard and dark brown hair. 

"Didion?" 

Immediately Didion took advantage of Jim's surprise. In seconds he had shifted his weight, spinning, then throwing his leg high into the air, striking Jim in the hand. The detective's gun sailed in a graceful arc over the edge of the roof. Still caught off guard, Jim watched his weapon fall away, not anticipating Didion's second move as the assassin punched him hard across the jaw. 

Then Jim's anger took over. With a growl he curved his body with the punch, clenching his fist and spinning around, making contact with Didion's exposed ribs in an angry jab. Blow followed blow in rapid procession as Jim released all the rage and frustration pent up inside him for weeks, but Didion countered them easily despite his wound, blocking Jim with his left forearm. Before Jim could react, Didion's muscled body dropped down, his leg swinging out like a sickle. The detective felt the strike to his ankle just as his body toppled over. As Jim fell back, Didion leapt for his rifle. 

Jim rolled with the gravity, bending his back and somersaulting to land on his hands and knees. Then he lunged towards Didion. Just as the assassin reached his rifle, Jim caught him, slamming him against the side of a car. He heard Didion huff with pain. Taking the moment, Jim drew back his fist and aimed at the one weakness he could spot -- Didion's gunshot shoulder -- and he smashed it against the metal car door. 

Didion's eyes grew wide and his mouth opened soundlessly -- the wave of black torment coursed over him. His body trembled from the numbing pain and he nearly fainted. 

But Jim's blistering wrath hadn't come close to subsiding. He snatched at Didion's black leather trench coat, pulled him up slightly, then slammed him against the car. "That's for Blair," he shouted, then smacked him against the metal again. "And this is for fucking with my guide." 

"Jim," Didion groaned. 

The detective didn't hear him, pounding him again. "You fucking bastard! Who the hell are you?" 

"Jim, stop it . . . please." 

The sentinel held him close to his face and spat, "Who the hell are you?" 

"I'm you, Jim. I'm you." 

Jim stared at him, his breath huffing. "What the fuck did you just say?" 

"I'm you, Jim. I'm you." Didion's eyesight blurred. "Only, I'm not as lucky." He swallowed the blood in his mouth. "I'm just not as lucky." 

"What are you talking about?" 

"We're both hypersensitives, Jim. Only, I'm the one who's going to die one day because of it." 

Jim relaxed his hold, letting Didion lean against the car. "Who shot you?" 

In spite of the pain wrenching his face, Didion allowed a slight smile. "You mean just now?" 

Only Jim would have none of it. "In your office. Who shot you?" 

"Bass. Bass shot me." 

"What?" 

"You heard me. Bass shot me." 

"Why?" 

"Because I told him to." 

"But . . ." 

"But I'm not dead. Of course not. We just needed to buy some time." 

"Who are you hiding from." 

"The Project." 

"You knew your house was bugged, didn't you?" 

"I knew they were there. The Project put them there. They always do. That's why they had to hear Bass, so the Project wouldn't come after someone else by mistake." 

"You did all that just to make the Project to think you were dead?" 

"Yes, Jim. That's why you have to let me go." 

"No! Not until you explain to me what's going on!" 

"Jim, I'm trapped. The Project gives me a serum that I have to take to keep from dying of cancer, and in exchange, I'm their assassin. My life for the lives of others." 

Slowly, the rage on Jim's face started to melt, replaced with a simmering calm. "Go on." 

"But I've found a way to free myself. I've found a cure. One where I can keep my senses and not die. And now I can save the lives of hundreds of other assassins like myself . . . Like you." 

"I don't understand. Why did you just kill that woman?!" 

"That woman was a member of The Order." 

"Who the hell are they?" 

"The Order is a secret society of killers, especially trained at hand to hand combat. No one can survive a fight with them. And so the Army devised killers who could kill them from a distance. I was sent here to kill her, Jim, and others like her and anyone who aids them." 

"But why this charade?" 

"Jim, I never chose to be like you. It was forced on me, and I've had to live with myself and what I've been made to do for four years now, killing, always killing, whoever the Project told me to kill. I can't take this any more. I've done my job, Jim. I killed the last Order assassin in Cascade--" 

"And Phillip Harrison?" 

"I killed him to save Ian Yoshito's life. Because Bass asked me to." 

"You killed a fellow Project member?" 

Didion pulled at Jim's shirt. "Jim, I'm trying to escape from the Project. I want to live a normal life. I want to be like you. Can't you understand that? I want to love Bass, every day, and go home and not have to kill, over and over again. Please understand me." 

"How can I? You just killed one of your own kind when you could have just wounded him. And you just killed this . . . this other person. What the hell is going on?" 

"Jim, you already know the answer. I'm not taking this any more. I'm breaking out." 

"By making two enemies at once?" 

"No." Didion's expression grew deadly serious. "I'm protecting the man I love, the only way I know how. By taking out anyone who'd want to hurt him." 

Jim grew silent. "But you let Bass die in that explosion. I saw his body." 

Didion didn't hear him. "I can take out the Project now. I can take away the lie they use to keep me, and others like me, chained to them. I can save the lives of my kind. I'm about to commit mutiny, Jim. And then when the criminals who lead the Project are dead--" he grabbed Jim's shirt viciously "--and I mean, dead, Jim -- the sick bastards who did this to me and and countless others -- sick bastards who hurt innocent people like Bass every day -- then _I'm_ going to lead the other rangers. I'm going to take charge and knock the hell out of The Order. That's what I'm doing, Jim. That's what's happening here. And think of the others, Jim. The other Rangers. I can't explain it. I don't know what's happening to me, but I can't stop thinking of them. They're in my head all the time. They're my people. My tribe. I have to protect them." 

Jim stared at Didion for a few moments, deep in contemplation, before his mind closed with one thought. "No." 

Didion looked at Jim in surprise. "What?" 

"This ends now. You killed two people. In cold blood. You broke the law. You're going to have to answer to that." Jim lifted Didion from the ground. 

"Jim, wait! You can't be serious! You can't arrest me! You have to let me go! This is too important!" 

"No. I'm a police officer. I uphold the law, not break it." He dragged Didion from the car. 

"Jim, please don't make me do this." 

The detective stopped. "Do what?" 

Jim watched Didion as his hands touched his belt. Before he could stop him, Didion pressed a small button on a tiny black device attached to his leather belt. 

"What did you just do?" 

"I had a feeling you wouldn't let me escape." 

"What did you just do?!" 

"Listen for his heartbeat, Jim. I know you can do it." 

Jim's eyes grew wide. "You wouldn't!" 

"Destroying The Order, and freeing the other Project assassins -- that's too important, Jim. I can't let you stop me." 

Instantly, the sentinel opened his hearing to trace his guide's heartbeat. In seconds he found it, just as it shuddered to a stop. For a few brief moments, Jim stood there, frozen, not believing what he was hearing -- the cessation of Blair's heart. Then the anger took over. With one swift movement, Jim clutched his handcuffs from his back belt, clicked a circle around the wrist on Didion's wounded shoulder, then locked the second ring around the metal railing against the concrete retaining wall. "You just went too far." 

Didion tugged on it slightly, feeling his bullet wound sting. He looked up at Jim with his mouth open and his eyes wide. "Jim! Jim, you can't do this! JIM!" He pulled hard against his restraint. 

Jim stood over him, the red fire in his face very evident. Didion watched as Jim pulled his fist back, then he swallowed, waiting for the blow. Jim slammed his knuckles into Didion's cheek, shouting. 

"Nobody fucks with my guide!" 

* * *

The momentum of being driven into the side passageway the second time threw Blair off-center. Nearly falling, he braced himself against the cinder block wall, his hands sliding along the glossy yellow paint. He turned just in time to see his attacker slam the metal door closed, then leap in front of him. His slim build stood only slightly taller than him, and his short, spiky hair flashed in the fluorescent light because it was such a white, platinum blond. The smooth skin on his jaw was pale, but his dark eyes told him everything. Eyes Blair had seen before. Eyes he knew. 

Blair couldn't speak at first. His tongue flopped thickly in his mouth. Finally he mumbled, "Bass?" 

Sebastian pushed his finger to Blair's lips. "She. I don't have much time." 

"You're alive?" 

"Rumors of my death, greatly exaggerated, yada yada yada." 

"How?" 

Sebastian raised one eyebrow with impatience. 

Blair shoved him hard in the chest. "But the bodies. I saw your body. I saw the tattoo, and then the blood type, and --" 

"Didion owns a pharmaceutical company, and he's been the director for several hospitals. He has access to bodies that are donated to science. For a long time now we've had two corpses that resembled us and matched our blood types. If the CIA had let you keep the bodies long enough, eventually your guys would have figured out they were dead before the bomb went off." 

"The tattoo?" 

"For enough money, a tattoo artist will work on a corpse." 

The academic closed his eyes, repulsed by the image. When he looked back at Sebastian, Blair's eyes were a little harder. "You killed those agents, didn't you?" 

Sebastian sighed, glancing down at his feet. "We had to, Blair. They were sent to kill us. Or rather, kill _me_ in particular." "Why?" 

"Didion had me pretend to shoot him in his office because we knew the house was bugged and the Project was listening. We needed them to hear my voice so that they would come after me, and not someone else like you or Collin. We had to draw the Project away from y'all. Having the Cascade PD clean the house of bugs after Didion's death made my death a lot easier." 

"You shot them, didn't you." 

"Didion shot one of them. The other one I knocked unconscious." 

"You left him there, to die in the bomb?" 

"Yes." 

"But the blood on the floor was Didion's, wasn't it? From the private blood bank?" 

"Yeah, we needed that to be real. That bought us some time until the Project matched Didion's DNA against that of the corpse. Good luck for us your guys didn't think to test the blood on the floor with the bodies after the explosion. Guess they didn't have time." 

"You stole Miriam's gun that afternoon, when we were at Stan's, didn't you?" 

"You should be a cop, Blair. You're wasting your time as an anthropologist." 

"I don't know. I think I'm still learning to read people." 

Sebastian smirked. "Perhaps. But there's something you need to know. Something that's more important than the Project." 

"Who are these people who are trying to kill you?" 

"They're a group called the Order. At least, that's what we call them. They're an ancient organization, going back as far as the Greeks. They started as warrior thugs who threatened the city states into submission. We think at some point that they were the Praetorian Guard in the Roman Empire, and really grew to power when they started assassinating emperors. They continue to maintain control by threatening to kill family members and friends of anyone in power unless their target does as he's told. They have their hands in everything, Blair -- organized crime, most companies, most governments." Sebastian glanced at the closed door nervously before continuing. "Anyway, these guys are extremely dangerous. You and Jim have to be careful, because they're watching you now. Try not to get close to them. These people know a particular kind of martial art where they disengage their conscious mind and rely on unconscious instincts. It makes them lightning fast. You can't compete with them hand to hand. The only thing you can do is avoid them and strike from a distance." 

"How will I know who they are?" 

"You'll know. You'll get antsy when they are in your territory, but when one of them is watching you, somehow our subconscious minds react. I don't understand why it happens, and I don't quite know why it's always the same image. Maybe you'll figure it out. But if you're a . . . guide as you call it, you'll start having these nightmares." 

"Oh my god, the dogs." 

"I guessed you were having them." 

"Is that why you put the dog collar in my mailbox?" Blair spat out, suddenly angry. 

"I'm sorry, Blair," Sebastian said softly. "I don't know why it's always dogs, but it is. Some sort of Jungian symbol, I guess, I don't know. But that's something about how you're . . . made . . . as a guide that's warning you." 

"But how will I know who is who?" 

"Their names. These guys are trained as killers from a very, very early age. They are often stolen from their parents, and the Order gives them the name of where they were abducted. The woman Didion just killed, her name was Cordova. A man named Burlington runs the entire Pacific Northwest. If you ever, ever meet someone who has the same name as a city, avoid them like the plague." 

Both men stared at each other for a moment. "What are you going to do?" Blair asked. 

He shrugged his shoulders. "Go into hiding for a while. We've discovered a way to cure Didion, or at least keep him from dying from cancer. We've started contacting other Rangers and collecting a force. It hasn't been easy. Once the Project got a hold of our fake bodies, they were on to us. They've been playing agent against agent. That's one of the reasons Didion said he had to eliminate Harrison just now. But it's happening. We're trying to free ourselves, Blair." 

Blair gave him a closed mouth smile. "Good luck." He brushed his hand across Sebastian's short hair. "Because you so don't look good as a blond." 

"Still have the turtleneck, though," he said, running his finger under the high, tight black collar. 

"That's going to give you away, one day." 

Sebastian shrugged his shoulders again. "I have my image to think of." 

"And grow the goatee back." 

Again they were silent for a moment. "Tell Collin I love him. Tell him I'll get in touch with him when it's safe again. Have him call my mother for me. Have him tell her the same thing." 

"I will. How can I reach you?" 

"Someone will be watching. And Blair, I'm sorry about you and Jim. It was wrong, I know, and you were hurt, but we were just following orders the best we could. If we didn't, someone else would have been sent into doing it. I doubt they would have been as nice." 

" _That_ was nice?" 

"No, it wasn't. Just efficient. But Jim's a good man. I like him. Don't give up on him." 

"I never did." 

"Not as a partner, but you did as a lover." 

"Well, there was an extenuating circumstance." 

"Uhm, Blair, there's something else you should know." 

"What is that?" 

Suddenly, both men heard a high-pitched chirp coming from Sebastian's belt. "Ah, damnit." 

"What's going on?" 

"Jim's trying to take Didion in." 

"And you thought he wouldn't?" 

"No. To be honest, we expected he would." Sebastian's hand slipped into his leather jacket. "I need another favor, Blair." 

"A _favor_?" 

"I'm sorry. I love you. You know that don't you?" 

"Not really." 

"Yes, you do." 

Blair paid attention to the feelings in his chest, knowing he was in some way still connected to the man in front of him. "Okay, I guess I do." 

"Good. Take care my friend." In a flash, Sebastian's arm shot forward, tapping Blair below his chest. As his body began to slip beneath him, he saw the syringe sticking into his stomach, slowly being withdrawn. His eye lids fluttered as he crumpled to the floor. 

* * *

As he ran down the stairs, floor after floor, Jim dialed his hearing as high as he could stand. The echo of his boots on the concrete steps slammed into his ears. The murmur of the crowds. The sandy footsteps grinding into the dark northwest soil. The whine of brakes. The sirens. Jim didn't care. His ears could bleed gloriously, spurting new art on the walls for as far as he was concerned. He couldn't hear Blair's heart \-- his beloved, his pained, his dejected guide. When the stairs turned on him, he grabbed the black metal railing and swung his body ballet-like around the riser until he hit the next step down. /Don't die, Blair. Don't die. Please don't die. I can't do this without you. I can't live. Please, baby, please./ Colored numbers marking each floor taunted him. Five. Four. Three. Still he continued to run, his feet sometimes missing the steps and throwing him off-balance but Jim refused to quit, refused to fall, flying by his hands on the cold, unreceptive iron bars. By the time he reached the bottom floor, his mind had almost fried from fear. His hand gripped the doorknob to the side passageway. He could smell his guide behind it, even though he could barely hear the hiss of his lover's blood sliding through his weak veins. /Blair!/ His fingers gripped the doorknob and turned -- 

and turned -- 

and turned -- 

Jim eyed the doorknob, wondering why it hadn't opened, when he saw the metal sleeve encasing it. A simple metal sleeve encased the doorknob, preventing him from gripping it. A device so simple, and yet he couldn't turn the knob to release the latch, to open the passageway where his lover lay dying. 

"BLAIR!!" 

Instantly he reached for his holster to shoot the metal ring off. Empty. Didion had kicked his weapon over the side of the parking garage. For one second that seemed like an eternity, Jim stood there, barred by the metal door, while he listened to his lover's heart slowing down. /No. Oh my god, no./ Then his passion took over. Taking one step back, Jim hurled his muscled body against the metal, only to slam his flesh against the unwilling steel. 

"NO!" 

Again he flung his entire weight against the door. 

Not even a budge. 

Tears streamed down his face. 

/Please God Please God Please help me!/ 

Again and again he threw his body against the door like a battering ram, refusing to give up. He would die here first, his body a bloody pulp trashed by his devotion. At times he stood near the door, kicking the knob and shouting, when finally one final push bent the latch, encouraging him more. The sentinel refused to listen to his shoulder's complaints as he hurled himself again and again against the impersonal metal. 

When suddenly he found himself on the other side of the doorway, Jim wasn't first sure what to make of it. The image, though, of Blair's smaller body convulsing on the floor triggered his instincts. Not even registering that he had made it through the metal barrier, Jim scooped up his lover in his arms to take a complete measurement of his stats. His heart pumped weakly, and his pulse seemed like a frail ribbon under his skin. Beneath him, Blair trembled all over, his muscles jerking and vibrating. His beloved's lips, that he had kissed with so much tenderness in days past, seemed blue against his pale skin and five o'clock shadow. Holding him close, Jim could barely feel his pulse as it grew weaker and weaker, and his heart only beat intermittently. 

Throughout the tight passageway, Jim could smell the unmistakeable tang of heroin. 

Lifting him in his arms, and ignoring the strange sensation of burning in his left arm bloodied by its use as a battering ram, Jim grabbed his guide and bolted through the torn doorway, into the crowd, in search of any ambulance nearby. "Don't die, baby. Don't die. Stay with me. Do you hear me? Stay with me!" 

* * *

Simon and his men scrambled onto the final top level, exhausted by their run up the curving ramps to the tenth floor. Once on the roof level, he and his men scanned the area, searching for Jim, searching for anyone left standing. Rafe was the first one to see it. 

"Look!" 

He pointed to a set of empty handcuffs left dangling against the railing. 

Then he, Simon and Joel recognized the dull metal of the grappling hook attached to the railing. All three men rushed to the side. Rafe, being younger, was the first to reach the concrete barrier. Before he had a chance to think better of it, Rafe leaned over the edge to glimpse the escape. 

He felt the heat and force before his body recognized the hit. Suddenly, the muscles of his left shoulder caught fire, and Rafe fell behind the concrete barrier, gripping his upper arm as blood spilled freely from the wound. "Ah, shit!" 

The wire on the grappling hook was no longer so taunt. In a split second, Simon glanced over the concrete edge. In that instant, he saw the dark-brown haired suspect rushing towards a motorcycle manned by another stranger with spikey white hair. The blond had his arm raised, and suddenly the concrete closest to Simon's face puffed. The zing of a bullet ricocheting reached his ears. Simon reared back for cover. When he shot his vision over the wall again, the bike was speeding away. 

The captain grabbed his cell phone. When he heard an answer to his page, he shouted, "Suspect fleeing north on 147th Street!" 

* * *

As Ian sat on the step leading into the back of the ambulance, he continued to wipe his face. He had been doing so now over and over again, but he couldn't get over the feeling that gore covered his cheeks. Whenever he closed his eyes to wipe his eyelids, he could see Phillip Harrison's face staring so intently into his own, then suddenly bursting like a fruit. He knew the minute he saw him who he was. He recognized him from the hospital visit that morning. /Just that quickly. The Project targeted me just that bloody quickly./ 

Every so often, Collin, sitting beside him, would place his hand on his thigh. "I'm okay, love," Ian whispered. 

"I . . . I know." 

"How's Miriam?" He motioned to the other ambulance. Miriam sat on the curb, her head in her hands. 

"Okay. I guess." 

"Let's go check on her. I'm all right." 

They stood together, but both of them froze when they saw Jim lumbering towards them with Blair hanging limply from his arms. 

"Stand back!" he shouted. Collin and Ian parted suddenly, just as Jim leapt into the back of the ambulance and placed Blair on an empty stretcher. The EMT standing to the side of the vehicle raced in after him. 

"Hey, what's going on here?!" 

"This man's been injected with heroin." Jim flashed his badge. 

Waving for his partner who stood nearby, the EMT asked, "You sure it's heroin?" 

"Damn sure." He cupped his partner's face. "Blair? Blair, focus on me. Don't let go, Blair. You hear me?" Blair's face was already drenched in a cold sweat, and Jim brushed the dampened curls from his temples. 

The EMT searched for a pulse. He noticed Blair's blue lips and pale skin. "Symptoms look right." 

"There's a syringe in the alleyway." Jim reached for his cell phone and pressed a memory key. It rang once before Simon answered. "Simon, it's Jim. . . . I know, I know, sir. Listen, this is important. They got to Blair. He's been injected with something. I think it's heroin, but there could be something else. The syringe is inside a small hallway, where I . . . yes, that's right, inside the stairwell. I need someone to get it and take it to the hospital . . ." Jim paused to speak to the EMT. "Take us to Cascade General." Then back to the cell phone, "Cascade General, sir. Yes. Thank you." 

The doors shut on them, but Jim didn't have a chance to say anything to Ian or Collin. He watched as the EMT draped an oxygen mask over Blair's face. "Hang in there, baby. Hang in there. Please." 

* * *

Just at the corner of 146th, Sebastian cornered the bike hard, reaching back to touch Didion's right flank as he did so. The passageway grew tight into a smaller garage, and the calm southerner braked hard, approaching a white van with the back doors open and a metal grating acting as a ramp into its back storage area. Didion jumped off the bike just in time to miss the van's short ceiling. Showing their preparation, Sebastian threw the bike onto its side, and Didion grabbed a dark black tarp, throwing it over the bike before slipping under it himself. 

In the front seat, Sebastian snatched a long, ratty wig from underneath a blanket of newspapers. Adjusting it skillfully onto his head, he then added a white painter's cap and a pair of round eyeglasses. He started the engine and began to back out of the garage. 

The sudden rush of police cars caused him to slam on brakes at the exit. 

One squad car stopped, and a uniformed officer leapt from the passenger side. Calmly, Sebastian unrolled his window as the officer approached, his gun drawn. 

"Whoa, dude," he said, his southern accent gone and his hands raised. "What's up?" 

"What's in the back?" 

"Just paint, man. Check it out if you want. I ain't done nothing." 

The officer narrowed his eyes. 

"I heard shots, dude," Sebastian asked. "What the fuck's going on." Shoving his gun in his holster, the officer asked. "Have you seen a motorcycle go by?" 

"Yeah, man, some dude with white hair and no helmet. Went that way." He pointed to the left. 

The officer raced back towards his partner's squad car without saying a thing. 

Sebastian smiled with a feline grace as he watched the squad car peel off towards the left. Knocking his blinker to the right, Sebastian slowly eased the white van onto the street, away from the chase, and deep into safer territory. 

* * *

Jim ignored all the attempts by the nurses to give him something for his extremely bruised arm. He wasn't concerned, no matter how much it annoyed him. The tight constriction of the cloth sling they had provided for him in the emergency room didn't phase him -- he only barely knew it existed. Nothing was broken. His only focus lay on the heartbeat, slowly recovering, behind the hospital doorway. The doctors had given in to his demands, and the wooden door remained open so Jim could listen in to Blair's heartbeat and pulse. 

Finally a white-cloaked doctor exited Blair's room, and Jim sprang upon him. "How is he?" he asked, his voice louder than expected. 

Taken aback for a second, the doctor finally inquired, "Who are you?" 

"I'm his partner. How is he?" 

"He's going to be alright. We've already begun to administer the naloxone. He should recover fine." 

"When can I speak to him." 

"He should be awake in the morning." 

Jim checked his watch, then settled his anxiety for the long vigil he knew he would have to make at Blair's bedside. 

* * *

Slowly Blair opened his eyes, blinking in the bright fluorescent hospital light. In his right hand, he felt warmth and a comfortable squeeze. Rolling his head to the side, he saw his partner, Jim, sitting at his bedside, his wide thumb rubbing a path across his knuckles. When their eyes met, Jim smiled. "How're you feeling?" 

"Tired. Where am I?" 

"Cascade General." 

Blair laughed weakly. "Big surprise. What happened?" 

"You got a surprise overdose." 

"Overdose?" 

"Heroin." 

"So that's what heroin feels like." 

"Don't get used to it, Sandburg." 

"First time I've been warm since I got here." 

"The doctor said you could leave tonight." 

Blair pulled his hand free, and as he did, he felt the tug of the intravenous needle in his hand. "What?" 

"They've been pumping fluids and naloxone to clear you out." 

"What happened?" 

"Sebastian injected you with heroin." 

"No. I mean, at the ceremony." 

"Didion shot a woman named Beverly Cordova. She was a principle interpreter for the Salvadoran delegation, but Didion claimed she was an assassin." 

"Bass called them The Order." 

Jim shrugged his shoulders. "He also shot Phillip Harrison." 

"Yeah, I saw that. How's Ian?" 

"A little shook up, but he's fine." 

"Did you catch them?" 

Jim shook his head. 

"I wonder where they went." 

"Far away, I hope." 

Blair only nodded slightly, not really wanting to talk to Jim about it. Slowly, he turned on his side, pulling his arms to his chest. He felt so nauseated. He closed his eyes, letting himself drift into half-sleep, half-contemplation in an attempt to put everything together. Surreal dream images of egg-shelled men and well-meaning horses interplayed with memories of sitting alone in Collin's apartment, trying to let the Jim-inflicted wounds stop bleeding, let alone heal. And he remembered those first few months together, how he felt just how strong their relationship was. /What am I saying? I worried then that he'd do me like he did Tom. I always worried./ Now two strangers had slipped up close, rattled their cage, and sent Jim flying. 

/Okay. So now you know. Jim is the type to run when the going gets tough./ 

/Blair, that's not fair. Both times, he made the choice to leave rather than put the men he loved in danger./ 

/Okay, okay. But what's the difference? Outcome's the same./ 

Wrestling with the thin hospital blanket and his flimsy gown, Blair turned to face the other side of the bed, away from the rising morning light, away from Jim. /But what do you feel?/ 

Several minutes, maybe even a hour, passed before another thought entered the academic's mind. He searched his gut, his chest, anywhere for any hint of feeling. All he could find was emptiness. /I don't feel anything./ Blair sighed audibly, and he heard Jim shift in his chair. /Should I be surprised? We both just went through hell./ 

"Chief?" 

"Huh?" Blair lifted his head slightly. 

"Everything okay?" 

Blair didn't answer. 

"Uhm, the nurse just brought your breakfast. Are you hungry?" 

Pressing his palms against the mattress, Blair lifted himself up, and he felt the annoying prick of the IV needle. Jim stood up to roll the hospital tray towards Blair's bed. "No," Blair said softly. 

"What? You aren't hungry?" 

"Not right now." 

"You need to put something on your stomach, Chief." 

"Just . . . not yet, okay?" 

Standing at his guide's bedside, Jim stared at him for a moment, his jaw tense as he decided whether to argue with Blair or not. Finally, he just nodded once, choosing his time to fight, then rolled the tray aside. He sat in the chair, his elbows on his knees, then asked, "You feel like talking . . . maybe?" 

"About what?" 

"Didion. Bass." 

Blair shrugged his shoulders. "I'm still processing it." 

"Oh . . . okay. Is Collin or Ian picking you up?" Looking over at the phone, Blair crossed his arms. "I guess I should call them." 

"I can take you home if you want." 

"No. I can call Collin. Or maybe I can reach Ian before he leaves here. If he comes into work today." 

Jim read the meaning in those words, and his tone of voice came out a little hurt. "Oh. I see." 

Blair eyed him hard for a moment. Finally, he found the courage. "Jim, I . . . I don't know what to tell you." 

The detective pursed his lips slightly, afraid of what he was about to hear. "Just tell me the truth." 

"But I don't want to hurt you." 

"I'm already hurt, Blair." 

Blair sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes, then pressed his head back on the pillow. 

"Be honest with me, Chief. This isn't fair. I need to know what's going on with you, with us." 

"So much has happened." 

"I understand that." 

The anthropologist opened his blue eyes. He studied Jim's face -- the lines -- the blue eyes -- the strong jaw. Finally he said, "I don't think I'm in love with you any more." 

Jim stared down at the floor, his mouth open. Goose bumps spread across his skin. 

"The truth is, " Blair continued, "I don't know what I feel about anything any more. I'm all . . . numb." 

"Blair . . ." Jim tried to speak, but his voice betrayed him. "I'm . . . devoted to you." 

"I . . . I don't know what to tell you." "I want you to tell me that you won't give up on us." 

"Like you did?" 

Jim's eyes flashed. "I said I was sorry." 

Blair waved his hand. "I know. I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take this there." Looking back into Jim's eyes, he said, "I just . . ." 

"We can fix this. We can salvage this." 

"But is this something I want to salvage? . . . Jim, we were great as partners, and as friends. But . . . I don't know what to think of us as lovers." 

"So you're just going to quit?" Jim asked, a little angry. 

"I've never quit anything I've ever done, Jim. But I need to start making better choices." 

"I . . . I see." 

"I just need some space, Jim. To figure out what I need. And who I am. So much has happened, and I don't know what it all means." 

"Space, huh?" Jim stared back at the floor, his jaw grinding his teeth together. "I see." Slowly, he lifted his heavy body from the uncomfortable chair, his line of vision vague, then he turned and silently left the room. The silence of his withdrawal caused a wave of cold pain to bloom in Blair's chest as Jim walked away, out of his room, possibly out of his life for good. 

* * *

That night, Jim leaned against the metal pole which supported the loft's second floor above him. He wasn't quite sure how long he had stood like this, but his muscles ached. After Blair's words to him, Jim couldn't remain in the hospital. He escaped, came back to this lonely room -- /scene of the crime./ He had gone from chest-wracking sobs to emotional numbness and back again so often that night that he was exhausted. But he could feel it coming on again -- he was about to start crying. The sun had set, the lights were still out, as they had been for weeks. His heightened vision easily pierced the darkness to peer into Blair's empty bedroom. /He doesn't love me. . . . Should I be surprised?. . . . I hurt everyone who comes close to me. Mom. Dad. Stephen. Tom. Carolyn./ A full bottle of beer weighed down his right hand, gathering condensation, leaving star-drops of splashed water on the wooden floor. Sighing finally, Jim slipped away from Blair's bedroom, into the kitchen, where he dropped the beer bottle into the sink. For a few moments, he listened to the beer chug out of the bottle then slide down the drain with a hiss. He gasped, trying to hold back his emotions, clamping down his mouth as tightly as he could. /I've got to get him back. I've got to get him back. I just can't . . . live like this. . . . But how?. . . . He doesn't love me./ 

* * *

Collin woke up as he always did, at 6:30, regardless of the time he went to bed -- an old habit from the days, months and years he had loved a police officer. Brian would always lean over the bed, kiss him on the cheek, and whisper, "I love you, babe," before slipping out for work. He no longer fought it. /One of the ways my heart won't let him go./ Stretching slightly, he noticed that Ian was sleeping with his back to him, as he had been doing for the past couple of weeks. Normally he slept with his arm around Collin's waist. Collin stared down at his sleeping figure, then frowned. /Despite all we said to each other on Friday, I can already see where this is heading./ He took a deep breath to center his emotions, and then felt a little odd when he realized there truly weren't any deep emotions, except for maybe fondness. He carefully rolled back the covers, slipped out of bed, then brushed the sheets back in place. For a moment, he stood near the bed, still watching Ian, still wishing something would happen between them. 

As he walked out of the bedroom, Collin didn't notice Ian's eyes open to bore through the wall. The doctor remained motionless, pretending to sleep while fighting his own emotionless demons. 

In the kitchen, Collin stared at the coffee pot, wondering if he should risk waking up the apartment with the coffee grinder. For a moment, he thought of Blair. When he and Ian had picked him up from the hospital last night, he seemed so exhausted. They all were. The past few months had shredded all their pretty little illusions and exposed all their secrets. /That which doesn't kill us, only makes us stronger./ When they had entered the apartment, Blair slipped immediately into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. Collin looked at the coffee grinder again. /Better let sleeping dogs lie./ Deciding against coffee, he turned instead towards the front door to pick up the morning paper. With a snap of the wrist, he threw back the deadbolt lock and opened the front door. 

Then he jumped with surprise. 

The large figure of a man bending down startled him, and he drew back, just as Jim leapt back in similar shock. 

"Jim? What . . . what the hell are you doing here?" 

Almost blushing, Jim fumbled with a small envelope in his hand. "Uhm . . . Collin . . . I, uh, didn't think anyone would be up." "Is something wrong?" 

"Oh, no," Jim answered quickly. "Nothing's wrong." 

"Then what are you doing here?" 

"I just . . . thought . . . no one would be up, that's all." 

Slowly, Collin smiled as he leaned against the door frame. "Relax," he began with a soft drawl, "the rest of the household is asleep." He looked down at the envelope. "No one will know you were here, if that's what you want." 

Jim eyed the envelope in his hand. "Well . . . I . . ." 

Collin couldn't suppress letting his smile turn into a smirk at Jim's discomfort. "For what it's worth, you're doing the right thing." 

"By what?" 

"By plugging at it. Blair's heart will turn in due time. I know it. We all just need some time, that's all." 

Jim stared at him for a moment. "You aren't still mad at me?" 

"A little. Aren't you still a little mad at me?" 

The detective had to look away, and silence separated them for a moment before Jim confessed, "I fucked up, Collin." 

Collin's smirk turned into a warm, understanding smile. Finally he said, "Jim, there was a time I'd give anything to hear a certain cop say that to me." 

Jim raised one eyebrow. 

"And there was a time," he added, his accent thick, "when I wouldn't have listened." 

Jim nodded. 

"Do you want me to be a messenger?" Collin asked, extending his hand. 

Again, Jim glanced down at the envelope. Peering up one last time, he said, "I hope I'm doing the right thing." 

"Only one way to find out." 

He handed Collin the envelope. "Thanks." 

"Any time." As Collin began to close the door, he added, "And Jim?" 

He turned around. "Yeah?" 

"Good luck." 

* * *

Blair heard a knock on his bedroom door. "Yeah?" The door opened and Collin peered in. "What is it?" 

"I figured you couldn't sleep." Collin sat on the side of his bed, staring down at the beige envelope. "This just came for you." 

"Huh?" 

"Special delivery." He handed him the note before leaving, pulling the door shut behind him. 

Blair turned the square envelope around in his hands before ripping the seal. He pulled out a beige notecard and opened it. 

"Time does not bring relief; you all have lied  
who told me time would ease me of my pain!  
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;  
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;  
the old snows melt from every mountain-side,  
and last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;  
but last year's bitter loving must remain  
heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.  
There are a hundred places where I fear   
to go, -- so with his memory they brim.  
And entering with relief some quiet place  
where never fell his foot or shone his face  
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"  
And so stand stricken, so remembering him." 

Blair recognized the poem, and Jim's handwriting. And just below it, another note. 

"I miss you, Blair. I know I have no place in your heart right now, but please give me a second chance. Even if we have to start all over from the very beginning, before we were even friends. You're worth fighting for. I love you more than I ever thought I could. -- Jim" 

Blair refolded the note, then squeezed the pillow tight to his chest as his eyes grew wet. 

\--- 

FINIS 

Coming next: Huntsman, What Quarry?  
The Order strikes back with a gruesome vengeance.


End file.
